Harry Potter and the Danse Macabre
by ijnt
Summary: "Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and above all, pity those who live without love." A Harry Potter from the future travels through time to change his past — and loses himself. A Harry Potter from the present struggles with his destiny — and must find himself. No, they can't cheat off each other. (time travel, ewe, badass!fem!harry, tsundere!fem!voldemort)
1. An Evening With Martha

So, here's my foray into Harry Potter fanfictions. I don't own Harry Potter, and I only wish I could write something half as good.

It occurs to me in hindsight that this fic bears no small resemblance to _Jaime Evans and Fate's Fool_. This is...not actually intentional. So let's just say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and call it inspired by that story.

quick note: watch out for the p.o.v. switches, specifically the fact that there is one between the third scene and the fourth. also, if you're having trouble telling the different harrys apart, here's a tip: other than the first sentence, 'Harry Potter' will always be used to refer to the male harry, who is still fourteen and hasn't traveled through time.

* * *

 **Chapter 1  
An Evening With Martha**

"Well, here goes nothing," a very disheveled Harry Potter rasped, before popping the cork on the vial held in his too-thin hand and downing the foul-smelling contents.

A pillar of light split the sky in twain.

For hundreds of miles around, the shuffling of millions of footsteps halted for a moment. The only sound that remained was the ruffling of thousands of cloaks in the wind.

The bright beam of light winked out, and the earth beneath it crumpled outwards in an enormous ring, and the island once known as Britain sunk beneath the waves.

* * *

On a grassy hill overlooking the town of Leicester, England, a woman appeared in a flash of light.

This, of course, was quite unusual. Women generally didn't do such things. Even witches, who were regularly known to appear of out nowhere, were generally accompanied by the distinctive pop of Apparition or the whirlwind of a Portkey.

Of course, her method of arrival was not the only unusual thing about the woman. She was on the shorter side, and very thin, giving her an almost skeletal, emaciated look. Her wild black hair fell in untidy waves around her thin face, and vivid, poisonous green eyes peered out of sunken cheeks. She wore tattered trousers that hung loosely on her thin frame, sturdy boots, and a very ratty grey cloak. Her pale skin was also almost completely filthy — covered in mud, dust, and a great deal of a suspiciously dark liquid that looked a great deal like blood.

All in all, she was not the kind of person who usually hung out in idyllic grassy knolls in the nicer parts of the English countryside.

But perhaps the most unusual thing about her was the fact that she had traveled through time.

And, the first thing she did upon appearing was fall to her hands and knees and copiously retch a great deal of viscous, pulpy red substance.

"Ugh," she muttered, wiping her mouth with a grimy hand. Her voice was hoarse and raspy, from long periods of disuse. "That was pleasant." The she slumped a bit, and just lay on the ground, basking in the feel of uncharred earth and the gentle breeze that rustled through the grass. "Every time I think it can't get any worse, magical transportation somehow manages to surprise me by coming up with something even more unpleasant."

She slowly pulled herself up from the ground, wincing. Once upright, she frowned, and slowly began patting herself down, as if she was trying to make sure that all her parts were still attached. Her expression, however, slowly morphed from vague distaste to shocked horror, as she took note of the distinctive body parts that categorized her as female.

For a long moment, she just stood there, frozen, groping herself in a mildly inappropriate display.

"Bloody hell — a witch? How? This doesn't even make sense — I traveled through time! Not... _this_!"

She let go of herself, frowning, as if thinking through a difficult puzzle. After about five minutes, she then shook her head, muttering, "Well, I suppose it can't be helped now."

Then, she fished a battered wand out of her pocket, spun it a few times around her palm, and promptly Disapparated.

* * *

The first order of business was to find out if he'd managed to arrive in the right place — well, the right time, actually.

Harry figured that he could address the reality of his new body after making sure he'd reached his destination — one thing at a time. Of course, he was also _filthy_ , so that had to be pretty high up on the list of possibilities as well.

But for now, in a grimy back alley of London, he fit right in. Considering his lack of cleanliness and the fact that money was useless in the zombie apocalypse, he was just another homeless bum looking to scrounge a newspaper.

After three streets, each full of progressively smellier trash, he lucked out — someone hadn't bothered to collect their copy of _The Sun_. Picking it up in his disconcertingly delicate hands, he checked the date — 24/6/95.

Well, at least something had gone right. Squinting up at the sky, he saw the sun was getting worryingly low. Then, he rummaged about in his robes and dug out a dented golden pocketwatch that once belonged to Fabian Prewett. He still had business before the end of the Third Task. An hour, then. Two at most. Enough time? Maybe. Maybe not. Probably. But it was worth the risk — he should have plenty of time.

Voldemort wasting time trying to break into Gringotts and Hogwarts, or looking for traitors among his most loyal followers was time not spent gathering followers and gaining power.

He made sure the alley he was squatting in was deserted, before turning on his heel, and Disapparating —

— again.

Harry reappeared in the dusty country lane that he'd seen so long ago in Dumbledore's Pensieve. He walked briskly along, quietly and furiously ignoring the way his chest moved and refusing to acknowledge that it might have been intelligent to make sure he was wearing the proper clothes for his new shape before doing anything physical.

He very likely didn't have enough time, anyway.

Once he came into sight of the town of Little Hangleton, he paused for a moment and stared intently at the graveyard, visible on the other side of the valley. He imagined that Wormtail might already be setting up the cauldron, down below.

In a few hours, the Dark Lord Voldemort would regain his body there. And Harry had every intention of attending his resurrection.

But first, he found the gap in the hedges that led down a narrow rocky path into the dark woods. The sun was still in the sky, but it was the light of late-afternoon, and the way forward seemed wreathed in shadow.

Harry pressed forward, regardless.

As he walked, he deliberately put his hand into the pocket of his tatty robe, and withdrew his wand.

A murmured, " _Lumos_ ," had the tip lit, illuminating a strange, decrepit building hidden among the thick trees. It looked long deserted and half-fallen apart, and the snake that had once been nailed to the front door was now only a few wispy bits of sinew. The door itself was only standing upright by the smallest bit of hinge — it looked ready to fall at any moment.

The Gaunt Shack. It looked decidedly unwelcome. Harry approached, cautiously, on guard for any traps or creatures lurking in the darkness. Behind him, he could see where the trees thinned enough for the early evening light to penetrate the trees, but the house itself was untouched by the sun.

It also smelled horrible, and that was really something, as it reminded him of the Chamber of Secrets, of all things. Must be a Slytherin thing — maybe they had a uniquely unpleasant scent that was just left in all the places they frequented. That theory also explained a great deal about Grimmauld Place. For all the effort Voldemort put into ensuring the objects he made into Horcruxes were significant, he didn't quite extend that same reverence to their hiding places.

Harry had the perverse thought about Voldemort hiring an interior decorator for a moment.

He stood in the center of the house, simply observing the scene. He'd honestly been expecting to encounter _some_ kind of curse or dark creature here, but he could sense nothing — he felt perfectly relaxed.

A number of years living on the edge of a collapsed society had, if nothing else, honed his instincts quite well — those who didn't learn to trust their gut soon found themselves joining the shambling masses of the living dead.

And Harry's instincts, which were among the very best, told him that there was no danger. So Harry proceeded, if cautiously.

A quick wave of his wand spelled the end of the front door's last hinge, and it fell forward with an ominous thump.

A moment passed, and still nothing.

Harry cautiously proceeded forward, his wand illuminating a very shabby room full of decayed furniture, and a shocking amount of mold. The remains of a kitchen occupied one wall, and the husk of a fireplace stood opposite. It was small, dingy, and an altogether miserable place. The roof of the small structure seemed one particularly strong gust of wind from caving in completely. Two doorways stood at the end of the shack, one having collapsed inward, along with part of the ceiling. Beyond, he could see the remains of a large bed, just as ruined as everything else in the room.

Harry looked around, cautiously. By all appearances, it was just another ruined shack in the middle of the woods, long fallen into disrepair. Every inch of the house was rotted or rusted — it had long passed the point of disrepair and proceeded straight into ruin.

He couldn't exactly remember where the Horcrux was supposed to be, and nothing jumped out of at him — figuratively or literally. He'd half-expected to be attacked the moment he set foot in the shack, but it seemed perfectly mundane so far.

Just an old house that had been abandoned for decades. He considered the bedrooms, but dismissed that possibility. It was too obvious.

Instead, Harry ventured closer to the wide stone husk of a fireplace, one of the few things that had remained relatively untouched, but it looked to be only cold, gray stone.

On further inspection, Harry could see no distinguishing marks, just rough, fire-scorched stone.

Reaching out, he carefully felt each rough block, running his fingers over the surface and repeating under his breath, " _Lydium Lithos_." The spell was very old, originally one used in alchemy to determine the composition of a metal or bit of rock. If there was a spell tied to the rock, or if there was a space behind it, the spell would react.

He was disappointed, however. Tom Riddle would not replicate something as mundane as the entranceway to Diagon Alley to protect his Horcrux. That kind of protection was entirely too plebeian for the man.

Leaning back slightly, he took in the chimney again. It was altogether unremarkable. Hmm.

He placed one hand on the floor and stood up. Something tickled at his memory. A comment, made by Dumbledore, in a cave, a lifetime ago.

A simple, good idea...he raised his wand, and said clearly, " _Accio Horcrux_!"

A very quiet thump sounded somewhere beneath him, and he looked down at the very solid hardwood floor. Huh. Now that he looked at it more closely, he realized that the floor had held together entirely too well considering the dilapidated state of the rest of the house. It wasn't pristine by any stretch, but it was mostly free of the pervasive rot of the rest of the house.

Harry leaned down and pressed his palm to the floor. It was solid — he knocked once. It was far more solid than it should have been.

Harry now had to spare an unfortunate thought — that he very likely wasn't as physically strong as he had been before travelling through time. It was a situation that he would have preferred not thinking about, but it was very much a reality of his current situation that he couldn't currently ignore. Well, magic it was then.

He pointed his wand down, then, and intoned clearly, " _Deprimo_!"

The jet of angry red light smashed into the wood floor and...did nothing. Harry frowned down at it. There wasn't a problem with his magic, was there? No, it had felt fine so far, and there was no reason to assume that it was different, considering his wand worked just as well as it had before.

So the floor was enchanted somehow. He frowned down at it, and then leaned down to examine it more closely.

He stood there, for a long time, wondering if Voldemort really was that tacky. After about ten minutes, he had to face facts, and he deliberately used his wand and a whispered Cutting Curse to dribble a splattering of red blood on the floor.

Obediently, the floor opened up, revealing a very gaudy golden box, glittering in the dirt. Harry just raised an eyebrow.

He Summoned the box again, and it leapt up, landing on the floor in front of the hole.

Dumbledore's withered hand flashed through his mind, and he hastily called up his Occlumency. Harry couldn't really call himself a master of Occlumency, but he had put some effort into it after the war, enough that he could recognize an attack, or neutralize someone attempting to read his mind during a duel, and hex the person responsible. It wasn't at all elegant and Snape would very likely have been appalled at leaving his mind so unprotected, but it worked well enough for him.

Harry prodded the box a few times, and a quick application of Scarpin's Revelaspell revealed no enchantments. He flipped the lid open, and peered down at the gold ring, crudely topped with a black stone.

He put his hands around it and was very careful to not put a finger inside, in case the curse was that touchy. Slowly, he picked it up and stashed it very carefully in his pocket, wrapped in a loose scrap of his robe.

He would have to deal with the curse somehow, but that was not important. He'd gotten it. He slowly allowed himself to relax. One step at a time.

He opened his eyes...and came face-to-face with a Dementor.

Or, at least, face-to-twisted-mass-of-flesh. He gasped, and immediately scrambled for his wand —

The Dementor's clammy, ice-cold hands clamped around his head, twisting his hair painfully. The gruesome mockery of a mouth opened in an equally gruesome version of a smile, and Harry could feel himself floating away —

He could see Ginny, standing there, smiling at him, her face set in a guileless, trusting expression. No, he thought desperately, let it not happen. He didn't want to see what came next. The creature, a half-rotted corpse held together by the magic that animated it, appeared behind her. It reached over casually, almost lovingly — and ripped her throat out. He screamed, and then he was flinging fire — Neville was looking at him, eyes full of that boundless confidence he'd found sometime in his seventh year. Harry wanted to yell, to scream, to tell Neville that he didn't deserve that — but Neville was already jumping, down, into the pit of creatures, so all of them could live — he didn't deserve any of that trust, that faith. He was a failure. He'd failed all of them. He'd failed everyone he'd ever loved.

And then he remembered — not yet, he hadn't failed anyone yet, and if he didn't hurry he was going to fail Cedric again —

The Dementor swam back into view.

The creature's mouth was opening wider, and wider, and the panic inside him coalesced into outright terror. If he didn't do anything, he was going to die, twitching and shivering, right here and now, and the world would again be doomed to a terrible fate. Slowly, ice crystals began to form around the room, even on his hair and face.

In a half-second, the thought passed through his head — it had been years since he'd successfully conjured a patronus. The war — if a fruitless struggle against a tide of the living dead could be called such — had long since robbed anyone left alive of the capacity to cast such magic. It was part of the reason why the Dementors had become such a problem later on — nearly the same level of problem as the zombies themselves. In all likelihood, a Dementor would probably not bother him if he'd happened across one — as he was lacking the same kind of happiness as most other people — he just had the supreme misfortune of encountering one specifically ordered to kill him.

He panicked. A half-formed thought had one hand digging in his pocket for the ring, and another had his wand out and raised towards the Dementor.

 _Depulso_ , he thought desperately. The Dementor's robe fluttered as if it was in a strong wind, but it was otherwise unaffected.

A sudden surge of power seemed to emanate from the ring, as soon as he touched it. It beckoned him, he wanted it — the power to cheat death, to change everything, to ensure that no one he loved had to die again. He pressed his eyes together tightly, and reminded himself that that terrible power, as tempting as it seemed, wasn't worth it.

The mouth was coming closer now, and he held up his hand, ring tightly grasped, in a last-ditch attempt to ward off the Dementor by offering it a more enticing prize — a piece of Voldemort's soul.

It worked — for a given value of worked — the Dementor broke off the impending snogging session to wrap its lips around the fragment of soul, attempting to eat that, and Harry felt the deathly cold sensation on his fingers.

It lasted for a half-second, and then he felt curiously light. A voice in the back of his head that helped him ward off the Imperius Curse and occasionally reminded him when he'd forgotten to brush his teeth took the moment to inform him that this was Not A Good Thing.

It was that little voice that saved him again — he'd long since learned to trust it, and it had saved him many times from both gruesome fates and bad breath.

So Harry did the first thing that came to him — he lit the Dementor on fire with an Incendio.

Surprisingly, the cloak lit up immediately, and the thing _shrieked_.

This had two results — a good one, in that the Dementor immediately let go of him — and a bad one, in that it was now wildly flailing around, and on fire. He jerked his hand back into his pocket as quickly as possible, and pocketed the ring.

The fire gave him a small reprieve — not much, but enough to put his hand in his cloak and grasp the handle of an ornate silver goblin-forged dagger, which he withdrew. He then slowly dragged the blade across his wrist, letting the red blood flow into the blade, as it drank like some twisted caricature of a straw. It gleamed a sickly red in the yellow half-light of the fading sun, the white of his _Lumos_ , and the bright orange of the flaming Dementor.

The final source of illumination would fade quickly, however, and he strode forward, brandishing the blade.

The Dementor's fire had dimmed, however, and it was once again closing in on him, the ambient temperature dropping.

This time, Harry was ready for it.

As it grabbed for his head, he nimbly ducked underneath its grasping hands, and —

The blade sunk cleanly into the underside of the creature's jaw.

An unholy screech far beyond what he'd heard before issued forth, before cutting off into a choked, sick gurgle as black blood spewed forth from the wound. The Dementor sagged, and Harry withdrew his dagger, stepping back.

He quickly stashed his wand, and switched hands, so he could cradle his burned hand to his chest and wipe off the dagger with the other.

Once he'd stowed it away again, he watched the Dementor's throes as the black liquid continued to pump out from the wound. The creature seemed to deflate as it lost mass, and even now the temperature was returning, and he could see a different future again, one that didn't end in endless shambling monsters wearing the face of his friends and near-eternal night — the one he had come back to make.

As the adrenaline ebbed, he could feel the pain in his hand returning. It had been badly burned, and he had not helped by using it immediately after getting it burned. The one small upside was the cut he'd made to open the floor had cauterized, and he was no longer bleeding on that hand. His other one, however, was bleeding freely. He could have coordinated that better — both his hands were bleeding, and it really would have been easier to have made both cuts on one hand.

He gritted his teeth and concentrated on thinking past the pain. He had no Burn-Healing Paste, and he would have given a great deal for some. A Blood-Replenishing Potion wouldn't go amiss, either. Instead, he could do very little other than ignore the pain — he could make his hand cooler, but that was a poor substitute. A Flame-Freezing Charm might would have prevented his injury, but he hadn't had a lot of time to cast a lot of spells before the _Incendio_.

Wanting to get away from that horrible shack, he moved back to the lane from which he'd came, walking briskly and studiously ignoring his throbbing hand. As he walked, he switched the wand to his throbbing hand, and tapped his bleeding wrist, murmuring, " _Episkey_." The wound closed, and Harry soldiered on.

Once he'd gotten far enough away, he stopped and intoned, " _Aguamenti_ ," and held his hand under the wand tip, immersing it in the stream of cold water that spewed forth.

He looked up at the sky. The sun had nearly moved below the horizon. He had precious little time.

After a few minutes of running water over his burn, the pain had dulled to nothing. He knew that when he stopped, it would return.

But he was on a very tight timetable, so it would have to be enough. He bound his hand in wet strips of cloth from his ruined undershirt, and drew the heavy ring Horcrux from his pocket. Then, he set off at a brisk walk towards the graveyard.

In his other hand, he used his wand to poke at the ring — he didn't want get his fingers too close and risk putting it on. He'd already come close enough tonight as it was.

" _Specialis Revelio_."

The ring flashed a strange fluorescent green-yellow, and Harry understood — it was a flesh-rotting curse, tied to the ring, and anyone that put it on would face inevitable death.

Using his other hand, he conjured a small rabbit, and quietly muttering an apology to Hagrid, he put the rabbit on the ground, before pushing the ring onto one of its paws.

The effect was both immediate and extremely gruesome. The rabbit _withered_ , starting with the paw that held the ring and spreading through the rest of its body. Its fur turned grey, the skin dessicated as its flesh rotted away, and it eyes became empty sockets. The only thing left was the mostly ruined corpse of a rabbit, lying on the ground. Harry quickly divested it of the ring, and checked to make sure the curse was neutralized.

Once he'd confirmed that it was, he slipped the ring onto his hand and made sure he wasn't about to become just as decrepit. Then, he checked his pocketwatch again. He was running short on time. He needed to hurry.

He Disapparated with a crack.

* * *

"Robe me," a voice commanded from inside the steam, sweet and silky. Harry Potter — not the one who had just traveled through time — shuddered. The sound was entirely too pleasant to belong to a monster. Wormtail scuttled over to grab the black robes from the ground, and draped them awkwardly on Voldemort's shoulders.

The steam of the completed potion cleared, and for the first time, Harry could see her clearly.

He stared into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Pitiless, red eyes, with slit-eyed pupils, set in a too-pale face that would have been beautiful if it hadn't reminded him forcibly of a snake's. Her head, however, was completely bald, which only added to her inhuman appearance.

The Dark Lady Voldemort smiled at him, and it made his skin _crawl_. She was pretty enough that it would normally have been very nice to see her smile, but there was nothing appealing about it. It was hungry, with a promise of violence, like a wolf's grin — or perhaps more appropriately, a snake's.

Then she stepped back, and examined her body. She was tall, and lithe, with long-fingered hands and very pale skin, although that the part of him that was a fourteen-year-old boy took note that despite being the most evil witch of the current era, she was not just attractive in the face. But her beauty was somehow wrong — there was something about her appearance that was off, and like she had been sculpted with all the right pieces but someone hadn't quite followed the directions correctly.

"Hello, Harry Potter," she murmured.

He couldn't find his voice to respond. Instead, she carefully withdrew a pale wand from her robes, and stroked it, almost lovingly, her gaze still on him. Wormtail whimpered from somewhere, but he seemed far off.

The moment was broken by a crack that sounded as if someone had just snapped a whip — Voldemort's head snapped up, and her delicate brow furrowed. Harry followed her gaze. Standing there, not ten feet away, was a woman Harry had never seen before.

She was very pale, and had long black hair and luminescent green eyes. For a second, Harry thought she might be related to his mother, because of all the times he'd heard that they had the same eyes, but he discarded that thought — Aunt Petunia was the only relative of his mother around to take care of him. Her clothes were torn, and ragged, and there was a suspicious liquid soaked all down her front. She couldn't be called pretty, either — her face was very thin, and her eyes were sunken into her skull, giving her an almost skeletal visage.

"Oh, dear," she said, disconcertingly casually. "Are you going to kiss him?" she asked Voldemort. Her voice reminded him of Sirius, as it was low and raspy.

Harry goggled at her.

She continued, oblivious to both his surprise and the way Voldemort's eye twitched in fury. "I just think he's a bit young, you know? I'm not trying to—"

"How _dare_ you," Voldemort said, low and dangerous.

"So you weren't going to kiss him then? Not even a peck?"

"Er, no—" Harry started to say —

But he was interrupted by none other than Voldemort, who screeched, "I would do nothing of the sort! I will kill him, and then no one will question me again!" The conversation didn't seem to make a whole lot of sense. At this point, a death threat from Voldemort was a comforting return to normalcy.

"Ah," the other woman said, perfectly calm. But something in her posture had shifted — she no longer looked tired and ready to keel over at the slightest gust of wind. She was standing tall, her expression sharp, and Harry could see a wand held loosely in her hand. Her eyes, already intense, _burned_ with power.

And then the wand was pointed straight at Voldemort, who stared impassively back.

"I would think that you might want to pick on someone your own size. Killing a teenage boy isn't going to prove anything other than your ability to kill children. But you're already famous for failing to murder a baby, aren't you?"

Voldemort looked livid.

"If you insist on inviting your own death, so b—" and she broke off mid-word. Her eyes were fixed on the green-eyed woman's wand — no, not the wand, the strange, ugly gold ring on one of her fingers. It looked completely unremarkable, topped with a chunky black rock.

The pain spiked in his scar, and somehow, without needing to be told, Harry understood that Voldemort was _furious_.

Voldemort's scarlet eyes were wide. "How — you — how?" she asked.

The other woman chuckled. "That isn't the question you should be asking. Not how — who?"

"Who…" Voldemort repeated, almost dumbly.

Harry could now conclusively say that he had no idea what was going on — that ring was somehow important, and Voldemort simultaneously more alarmed and less composed that he had ever seen her. And this other woman — she had just waltzed in and casually started to needle the most dangerous witch in a century. The only comfort he had was that Voldemort seemed just as confused and wrong-footed as he was.

The woman glanced over him, and, catching his eye, she winked.

Then, she addressed Voldemort again, "Yes, Riddle, who. Now, how about we duel, you and I? If you can kill me, you can take back the ring. It _is_ yours, after all."

"I will gladly end your pitiful existence, but not before I rend your mind apart, piece by piece, and you tell me exactly how it is you acquired _that_ ," Voldemort promised darkly.

"Excellent," the other woman beamed. "If you kill me, I suppose I can't stop you killing Harry, either, but if I win, you're going to let him go."

"Am I?"

"Of course you are. It's only fair. I suppose if you wanna call your little minions first so you have a good audience to show off to, you can do that too."

Voldemort just eyed her incredulously for a few seconds, and then she threw back her head and laughed, and almost-pleasant sound that still managed to unnerve Harry.

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy killing you," she promised. The woman just smiled vapidly in return.

Then Voldemort turned around and prowled gracefully over to Wormtail, who had stopped whimpering a while ago, and now was lying comatose near the ruins of the cauldron. She frowned down at him, and obligingly raised her wand, and conjured a shiny silver hand, which she attached to the stump of his arm.

Then, she pointed it at him and said, " _Rennervate_."

He jerked awake, blinking stupidly, and Voldemort sneered down at him. "Up, Wormtail. I require your arm."

He stared up at her, eyes wide and frightened for a moment, before he recovered and noticed his silver hand. He flexed it, eyes filled with wonder. Then, he threw himself at her feet.

"Mistress," he babbled. "My Lady, it is...wonderful...thank you... _thank you_..."

"Yes, yes. Your arm," she demanded impatiently. The other woman, calmingly watching, rolled her eyes.

He got to his feet and held out his arm, the Dark Mark red and vivid on his skin. Voldemort raised one long, elegant finger to the Mark, and pressed. Harry's scar erupted in pain again, and the tattoo turned black, instantly, and Wormtail whimpered. Voldemort ignored it, however, and spun to face the other woman.

They eyed each other, speculatively.

The silence lasted for a long minute, until the strange woman broke it. "All right, Harry?"

Voldemort glanced over at him, as if she'd forgotten he was there, but her gaze didn't linger — instead, it returned very quickly to the strange newcomer.

He replied, "I'm fine — just — who are you?"

"Er," she said. "Well — you mean you don't know?"

He just stared at her, nonplussed. "Er, well, no. Maybe if you were wearing a nametag, that would help people know who you are."

"Ahhh. Well, I shall have to consider it," the woman said thoughtfully. But if Harry wasn't wrong, he thought she sounded...relieved.

"It matters very little," Voldemort interjected, "because you're going to be dead very soon."

The woman turned a very wide smile on Voldemort, and said, "Well, let's not count our chickens before they hatch, yes?" Then she perked up and looked around. "Ooh, look, your little friends are here!"

And indeed, many cloaked shapes were Apparating out of the darkness. Each one of them was wearing a large cloak, concealing them from head to toe, and a bone-white mask over their faces. Death Eaters.

They arranged themselves in a large circle, enclosing everyone inside — Wormtail, Voldemort, the strange woman, and Harry. Their arrangement was ordered by some inscrutable design, since there were gaps, often large ones, in the assorted witches and wizards.

Voldemort stepped forward and stared around at the crowd. The dark-haired woman had moved quietly close to where Harry was tied to a grave, and she was leaning casually against one of the larger tombstones.

"Very dramatic, she is," the woman commented loudly to Harry.

Harry goggled at her again. It was almost like she was trying to be obnoxious.

One of the Death Eaters had broken ranks and come forward to kiss Voldemort's robes and beg her forgiveness. She did not appear at all impressed, however, in fact, she had her wand out and trained on him.

"Hmmm. What's her first name?" the woman murmured.

"Come again?" Harry replied.

Voldemort just put her foot on the man's head, and made him kiss her feet. It was...disturbing, particularly considering the unnerving grin she sported during the process.

"Voldemort's name," the woman said again. "Her real name, not that pretentious codswallop she goes by nowadays."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling like it was a rather odd thing to ask. In fact, it was one of the strangest conversations he'd ever had. "Well, it's actually Martha."

"Martha? Really?" she asked. "I suppose I understand why she hates it now. Thanks."

And then she strode forward without another word, right as the last of the Death Eaters was getting back in line after also kissing her feet. Harry wished he knew who she was, but it didn't look like she was going to tell him. She did look vaguely familiar...

Voldemort said, "I smell your guilt, Death Eaters. And trust me, we will deal with your cowardice and disloyalty soon. But for tonight," she raised an elegant hand in the air, indicating the woman and Harry, "I will show you exactly why thirteen years later, people still fear to speak my name. Tonight, I will demonstrate once again that I am the greatest witch alive. You will bear witness to my rebirth — and you would do well to remember that Lord Voldemort always wins."

"You done spanking your disloyal cronies yet, Martha?" the woman asked irreverently.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I have endured your childishness long enough. Now, fool, we duel, and after I have killed you, I will kill your precious Boy-Who-Lived, and then," she glared around at the Death Eaters, "and then none of you will dare question my invulnerability again. To think that I could be undone by a mere—"

"Enough yapping, yeah?"

And then Voldemort's wand was raised.

"Death Eaters, do not interrupt. _Avada Kedavra_!"

The jet of acid-green light snaked forward, but the woman danced nimbly out of the way and casually flicked her wand in reply.

A wave of fire _erupted_.

It raced toward Voldemort, growing to the size of a small barn and lighting up the dark graveyard just as bright as the daytime. Voldemort, however, was unfazed, and an equally casual wave of her wand had the fire dissipating and dying out almost instantly.

" _Avada_ _Kedavra_!" Voldemort shouted again, but the dark-haired woman pointed her wand at the ground and a few bits of earth flew up into the air and intercepted the volley of Killing Curses. They exploded, spraying bits of flaming earth in all directions.

The woman, however, wasn't content to just wait for Voldemort to keep bombarding her with Killing Curses.

Her return curse hardly looked like a spell — instead, she flicked her wand at the sky.

A bright lance of fiery light fell impossibly fast, like a falling star. It landed right where Voldemort was standing — who was suddenly not there — leaving a deep, smoking crater.

Voldemort appeared elsewhere in the circle, and replied with a strange purple curse that didn't so much fly forward as dance erratically through the air towards the strange woman. She didn't move or summon anything to block, and instead pointed her wand at herself, muttered something, and flopped bonelessly to the ground, like a puppet with it's strings cut. The spell curved down to follow her descent, and when it made contact, flickered through her body a few times like an extremely visible current of electricity, before dissipating into the ground.

The woman let out a moan, and Disapparated herself before the followup green jet of light could finish her.

And then she was standing there, right next to Voldemort and screaming out, " _Sectumsempra_!" There was no light, but she slashed her wand vertically, and blood fountained up from one of Voldemort's forearms, as if she had been holding an invisible sword instead of a wand.

Voldemort snarled, and her opponent vanished again. She cast a quick spell to stop the bleeding, before looking around. Unable to spot her opponent, she then performed a surprisingly acrobatic backflip, spinning her wand arm in a circle. Harry was not expecting her to be so...flexible. A thick blood red ring of magic erupted from the wand, pulsing outwards like a ripple in a pond.

Voldemort apparently either didn't consider or care about the Death Eaters still surrounding the duel, and they had to Disapparate out of the way of her spell.

The dark-haired woman, however, did no such thing. Instead, Harry lost sight of her, but she seemed to appear out of nowhere inside of the red ring, which smashed aside headstones and statues in equal measure.

She stopped, calmly, and sidestepped another Killing Curse.

"I confess myself disappointed," Voldemort taunted.

Her opponent quirked an eyebrow. "Alright, I'll bite. Why are you disappointed, Martha?"

The duelists were facing each other, perpendicular to Harry, although Voldemort was further away, enough that he could see the green-eyed woman perform a series of complicated wand movements behind her back, out of view of her opponent.

"You do not seek to kill me. Don't tell me you're another fool who worships at the feet of that champion of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore. Are you going to lecture me about fates worse than death next?"

"No, but we both know that killing you won't stick. You'll just become a loose soul again, and your little cronies will resurrect you in a week or so. It'll be inconvenient, sure, but at most a minor setback. Now, if I dismember you properly, then you'll have to face the indignity of killing yourself or ordering your own death if you don't want to try to conquer Britain as a torso.

"I'm not afraid of killing you. _Avada Kedavra_!" the woman called, sending a Killing Curse straight at Voldemort.

Voldemort simply frowned, and Apparated away, dodging both the curse and the stone angel that jumped down from the top of a nearby tomb, swinging its scythe wildly.

She reappeared, and slashed her wand.

A gigantic electric-blue arc of magic surged out, slicing cleanly through the stone angel. It picked up speed as it traveled, flying forward until it hit a shining silver shield conjured by the green-eyed woman. The shield didn't waver or break, but instead let out a low ringing sound, like a gong.

The woman dropped her shield and Apparated again.

This time, Voldemort was ready. " _Crucio_!"

The dark-haired woman was not fast enough to dodge the perfectly aimed jet of light. As soon as the red curse caught her, she crumpled to the ground. She lay there, writhing silently for a few seconds before the screams began. Voldemort slowly walked forward until she was standing over her, triumphant.

Harry was transported back to that day in Professor Moody's class, when he had shown the entire class the Cruciatus Curse. He had thought that was horrible enough, this was much worse. Harry didn't know the woman very well — he didn't even know her name — but this was not something he could imagine wishing on anyone else, even Draco Malfoy. This...this was _horrible_.

As the green-eyed woman shrieked and writhed, in obvious pain, Voldemort began to laugh. The sound was echoed around the circle of Death Eaters. For the first time since the strange woman had shown up, Harry wondered if he was going to be able to make it out alive.

Voldemort turned her head to look at him, ruby-red eyes glittering with triumph. His scar erupted in pain again, and he could _feel_ her desire to throw the victory in his face.

A part of him knew that he had no chance where the woman had failed, and yet...if Voldemort thought he was going to just lay down and die, she had another thing coming.

He would _not_.

Voldemort took her eyes off him, and said, "Wormtail! Untie Mr. Potter, and give him back his wand."

She looked down at the dark-haired woman, and released her curse. The woman stopped flailing and screaming almost instantly. Voldemort, however, ignored her, and stepped forward, over the prone woman, pointing her wand at Harry.

And then she let out an unexpectedly delicate-sounding little gasp of surprise.

The woman was sitting up, one hand grasped around the handle of a sinister-looking silver dagger that was buried halfway through Voldemort's thigh. Both Harry and Voldemort stared at the woman, laying there, mouth wide in a rictus grin that matched the madness in her eyes.

Voldemort recovered her shock, and sneered. "That was foolish. _Avada Kedavra_."

The answering crack sounded, and then the woman was interposed between Harry and Voldemort, and the Killing Curse exploded harmlessly against the ground. Voldemort reached down and pulled the dagger out of her leg, with a squelch of black-looking blood.

"Ahh," she said softly, so much so that Harry had to strain to hear it. "I will admit, I was not expecting you to possess such a...practical item. I am...impressed, that you would resort to such brutality."

The dark-haired woman answered, equally as quietly, but without her usual cheer, "Sometimes, it's necessary."

Voldemort nodded, to acknowledge the point. "I'm still going to kill you, though."

"But not tonight," the dark-haired woman said, the picture of calm again.

And then, to Harry's utter shock, Voldemort agreed. "Not tonight. But I have enough strength left to leave you with a parting gift."

And then she lifted her wand, and fire erupted.

A great serpent, composed entirely of living flame, slithered forward alarmingly quickly. The woman turned and ran.

"Harry!" she cried, as she reached him and cut his ropes away with a charm. Behind her, the serpent loomed, and behind it, Voldemort was inspecting her Death Eaters.

He scrambled up out of the ropes, getting to shaky feet. He almost fell when he put his weight on his injured leg.

"Can't you stop—"

"No!" she cut him off, grabbing his arm in an iron grip and dragging him along. Vaguely, he noticed she was bleeding from a rather nasty cut on her arm. "There's no time! Fiendfyre isn't something I can dispel quickly unless I'm the one that cast it!"

"Fine — my wand? Cedric!"

"Alright, alright," she said hastily, shoving his wand into his hand. He felt infinitely better with it than without it, enough to not question where she'd gotten it, and where Wormtail had gotten to. "Don't worry about Cedric, we need to find where the Triwizard Cup went."

"But — Wormtail—"

"I took care of it. He's fine. Now, stop dawdling."

He had so many questions about that statement that he didn't even know where to start. Looking back, he couldn't see Voldemort or the Death Eaters, and the flaming serpent, still chasing them, had multiplied into a swarm of fiery animals.

But what he ended up asking was, "Are you related to me?"

"Oh, Harry, I _can't_ be," she said, letting go of his arm to shove him forward, "how about this — in a week or so, when you're at the Dursleys, I'll come visit you, and I'll explain _everything_."

Harry wasn't sure he was satisfied by that answer, but she was still pushing him and pointing behind him. "Go! The Cup is a Portkey, it will take you back to Hogwarts!"

"Er — well — thank you," was all he could say. The flames were almost upon them now, and it felt like a very lame apology, considering all she'd done for him.

"Don't mention it." And then with a great push, he was stumbling back, feeling his foot hit something hard and metal; he felt the jerk behind his navel that told him the portkey was taking him away —

— and then he landed, and no one other than Cedric grinned down at him.

"Cedric!"

The older boy grinned down at him. "Hey, Harry."

"But — Wormtail—"

"Never hit me. After he cast the Killing Curse at me, everything went dark and I woke up in the middle of the maze again. I sent up red sparks, and we've been worried where you were ever since."

"I'm fine," he said. "It was Voldemort — she's back — but boy, did she meet her match—"

" _Harry_!" a voice interrupted him. It belonged to Albus Dumbledore, who Harry was unreasonably happy to see, and he felt his face break into a grin.

"Professor!" he said. "Have I got a story to tell you…"


	2. Paid In Blood

Don't own _Harry Potter_.

Also, as a heads up, this is entirely from future!Harry's point of view.

* * *

 **Chapter 2  
Paid in Blood**

Harry stalked through the crowd, careful to keep at least one street back on the trail of one Saul Croaker, a surprisingly handsome middle-aged man who was going grey in the temples, in a rather distinguished way. Hermione had once mentioned to him that Croaker was one of the experts on time who worked in the Department of Mysteries, and he had waited in the Atrium around five o'clock to spot the man leaving his workplace to head home for the day.

It was rather easy to tag a tracking charm onto his robes from there, and then follow him as he left work. It wasn't a real tracking charm — no such thing existed, rather, it was a false north pole for the Four-Point Spell, one that allowed him to use Croaker instead of north, and therefore follow him inconspicuously.

His target hadn't headed straight home, though. Instead, he had Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron, taken off his outer robe, revealing Muggle business clothes, and walked out of the pub into the hustle and bustle of Muggle London.

It made following him much more difficult than it should have been, as the crowds that sprang up at the conclusion of the work day flooded the streets. If not for the tracking charm, Croaker would have easily given him the slip.

Harry adjusted a strap under his shirt — he had managed to acquire some Muggle clothing from a department store that morning, and, unfortunately, he could no longer pretend that his ratty old shirt and trousers were enough. It had worked quite well when he had a strict schedule to keep, but while besting Voldemort had bought him a few days of breathing space, breathing space these days was a double-edged sword.

If he had time to stop and catch a decent night's sleep, he also had time to dwell on the fact that he could no longer count himself among the male half of the population. Buying clothes for his new shape, similarly, had been an...enlightening experience, even if he had simply gone for the most practical clothing he could find. And while it was quite possible to avoid the worst of it, some concessions had to be made to the reality of his body.

To put it another way, he was never doing that again if he could help it.

And in that vein, he had to confront Croaker, one of the few people who might have answers to complicated questions about untested time travel. Harry didn't think anyone would _know_ , but he had a few theories himself, and he needed an actual expert to confirm them. Civilization had been well and thoroughly finished by the time they'd come up with the idea to travel through time, and they hadn't been able to check their theories, and thus had been working primarily off of Hermione's admittedly excellent memory, and quite a bit of guesswork.

In all honestly, it was a wonder he'd made it back to the past in one piece.

And, in the grand scheme of things, a new body was hardly the worst inconvenience that he could have been saddled with — he was hale and whole, and quite able to do what he had set out to.

Croaker took a turn into a Tesco, and Harry was faced with the problem of whether to follow him inside, thus risking discovery, and waiting for him to come out, and risk Croaker giving him the slip.

Of course, this decision was quickly rendered irrelevant when, not thirty seconds after entering, Croaker Disapparated from inside of the Tesco. Harry would recognize that distinctive crack anywhere.

He quickly ducked into a back alley to follow, Apparating the second he was out of sight, in hot pursuit.

He hadn't really known where he was going, only that he was following the direction and rough distance that the Four-Point Spell had given him, and he miscalculated twice and landed once in a rather unpleasant marsh, and again in the middle of a freeway, before he finally caught up to Croaker in the middle of a thick forest...only to come face-to-face with the man's wand.

"Who the ruddy hell are you, and why are you following me?" Croaker demanded.

Harry didn't panic or make any sudden moves, and raised his hands placatingly.

"I'm — _Accio Wand!_ "

Cutting himself off, he performed a wandless summoning charm with his left hand, and with his wand in his right, he shot a silent Fully-Body Bind at Croaker a split second later.

The Unspeakable's wand twitched, and it would have flown out of his grasp if he hadn't scrambled to keep hold of it. Unfortunately, however, that meant that he was totally unprepared to dodge the Full-Body Bind, and so his arms snapped to his sides and his feet snapped together, and he toppled to the ground.

He did, however, still have his wand. Not that it helped him.

"Croaker, next time you confront someone with a wand, petrify or stun first and ask questions later," Harry said. " _Incarcerous. Accio Wand. Finite._

"Now, I have to ask you something important. You work with time travel, yes?"

Rather than looking angry or frustrated at being tied up and disarmed, Croaker just looked confused.

"I might, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Harry replied, "There are some things I need to ask you about time travel. A...hypothetical situation, if you will. About a wizard who traveled through time."

Croaker's eyes narrowed, " _That's_ what this is about? If you wanted to ask me about my work, you could have just sent me an owl."

Harry's expression was incredulous as he lowered his wand. "Remind me, what is your job title?"

"I'm an Unspeakable. But—" he forestalled Harry's interruption, "—yes, Unspeakables aren't supposed to share things about our work to those outside the Department. However — if you come to me, and you're offering insight into something I'm already studying, like time travel, for example, I can help you. I might have even answered your questions even without being tied up at wandpoint."

"But — Unspeakable — how am I supposed to know that, when you call yourselves 'Unspeakables?' Maybe 'Only-Willing-To-Speak-About-Purely-Academic-Questions-ables' would be more accurate. Though, I do suppose that's rather a mouthful."

"Well, we don't exactly advertise it, do we? And let's be honest, how many random wizards exist who know things that are relevant to the things we study? This way, we control the information we gather."

"That makes more sense, I guess," Harry admitted. "The only people who would know things that you don't are people smart enough to figure something like that out — or they'd be well-known enough that you could approach them on your own."

"Exactly," Croaker said. "And since some of the things we study are legitimately dangerous, it's necessary to keep most wizards in the dark. Now, you said something about a hypothetical time-traveling wizard — did he — or she — use a Time-Turner?"

"Er...no."

" _Fascinating_ ," he breathed. "Tell me more."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You don't want me to untie you first?"

"I haven't heard about anyone not using a Time-Turner to travel through time in years, and not officially since it was outlawed in 1899 because of Eloise Mintumble. You've got to be doing something right, because you're not dead yet. On with it."

"Well, let's say that a hypothetical future wizard travels back through time—"

"How? I mean, what method did he hypothetically use?"

"Well, his hypothetical brilliant friend and him developed a ritual, you see, based on what she learned from using a Time-Turner for a while to get to all her classes. She developed a potion that used the sand from a number of Time-Turners to protect this hypothetical wizard from the kind of rapid aging that happened to Madam Mintumble."

"Interesting...how did you manage to arrive in the correct time? Hypothetically, of course."

"That was all in the Arithmancy. Hermi — I mean, this hypothetical brilliant friend — managed to find the exact time and space that lined up with the exact incantation for the right length of time. She was bloody amazing, is what she was."

"I see…" said Croaker thoughtfully. "So...you mean to say that you — or, rather, this hypothetical wizard, travelled through time, using an experimental potion made from the inside of a Time-Turner, using an experimental spell that her friend — who is in no way knowledgeable about time-travel beyond using a Time-Turner for a while, and you're still alive?"

"Er, yes," Harry said.

"I take that back — you've done nothing right. In fact, you're doing everything wrong. I don't know how you're alive. Seriously, everything I know about time travel says that you should be dead — that _something_ should have happened to you."

Harry felt his face reddening. "Surely it's not _that_ bad—"

"Oh, I assure you, it is."

"Well, what do you want me to say? I'm really quite lucky?"

"I would very much like for there to be a reasonable explanation. But, unfortunately, it doesn't seem like you have one, so, well, there you go. Now, you had a question." Croaker's tone was dry, and flat, and Harry wondered when he'd lost control of the situation.

"Er, yes. Well — you see, let's say that this hypothetical wizard made it back in time, and once he got there, well, he wasn't quite himself. He — well, he was a witch, when he used to be a wizard." Harry gestured to himself, rather awkwardly. He imagined his face was very red.

"Oh!" Croaker said. "Okay, well, I wasn't expecting that. Let me think."

Harry nodded, and absentmindedly sliced open the ropes holding him bound. The Unspeakable nodded back in thanks, stood up, rubbed his wrists, and stretched.

Harry simply stood back and let him stretch out, and pace around the small forest grove. Croaker took a few minutes to pace, obviously thinking through something complicated.

Finally, he spoke up. "I have a theory. I think it was the Time-Turner dust."

"Yeah?"

"It's one of the side effects of using the dust and not actually using a Time-Turner. The reason that Time-Turners work is because it's actually really quite easy to travel through time — dangerously so, in fact. What a Time-Turner does is stabilize the time loop, but it's almost impossible to keep that loop stable, and so Time-Turners are really only safe to travel about five hours in the past.

"But you didn't have that, so the potion you drank tried to bring you back in the same way a Time-Turner would — without the actual protective device of a Time-Turner. Madam Mintumble didn't need anything like this, because she didn't try to be in two places at once. I think your problem is that you didn't have that protection, so your magic had to protect you by making you someone else."

"But…I'm not someone else. I'm still me, I'm just girl-me."

Croaker frowned. "You're not any different?"

"I — er, well, I don't think so. I suppose I wouldn't know if I was, would I?" Harry asked.

"I don't suppose you would. But you should be fine as long as you don't interact with yourself."

"Ah. About that."

Croaker glared at him in a silent prompt to continue.

"I may have...well, I may have already talked to myself," Harry said, cringing.

"Again, I question how you're somehow not dead," Croaker replied, sounding truly angry for perhaps the first time in the conversation. "Did your friend not tell you the first and most important rule of time travel!? _You must not be seen!_ And the first thing you do is go up to your past self and strike up a bloody conversation!" He threw up his arms with a flourish.

"Actually," Harry defended. "It wasn't the _first_ thing I did."

"Oh, and that makes it better, does it!?"

"Well — doesn't it?"

"No! We need to fix it — don't talk! You'll just make things worse," Croaker shushed him.

"I made sure I didn't recognize myself, if that helps," Harry added hopefully.

"No. It does not. That's the whole point! The magic changed you so you wouldn't recognize yourself, and thank God it did."

"I see," Harry said, feeling very out of his depth.

"Apparently, you do not," Croaker scolded. Then, in a somewhat gentler tone, he said, "I think I know how to fix it, though."

"Er, well," Harry said tentatively. "Fix what? I mean, Obviously I'm not dead, so—"

" _Fix_ _time itself_!" Croaker shouted. "If you don't fix time soon, it will unravel! Did you learn nothing from Madam Mintumble? If you don't become someone else — really become someone else, and not you, the days will get longer and longer, and next Tuesday will _literally never end_!"

"That would be very bad."

" _Obviously_."

"Okay, how do I become someone else?" Harry asked, somewhat desperately.

"It's not as simple as calling yourself something different. You must _be_ another person entirely. There's a rather old ritual you can use — it's a bit of Blood Magic that Purebloods used to legitimize heirs. It's a bit of a legal gray area, in that it fell out use long before it would have been outlawed. Basically, you just need a bit of blood from someone not closely related to you, and you'll end up looking like them."

Harry was a bit confused at that. "Wait, how will that help? I've heard of that ritual, and I didn't think that ritual did much of anything apart from making someone look different, to give bastard children more legitimacy when it came to inheritance. I mean, couldn't I just permanently Transfigure myself and take a new name instead?"

Croaker frowned. "No, I don't think that will be enough. You need a new identity, and you need one now. The thing about identity — it's something that people have to _believe_ in to make real. That means there has to be someone that willingly acknowledges you as family. You might have gotten away without that kind of belief if you hadn't already shown yourself to yourself, but now? You need to do something more drastic, today, if possible. In fact, you can use my blood," he offered.

Harry had to ask, "You would honestly bind yourself to me in a sympathetic blood ritual on a whim? Why would you do that — you don't even know my name."

"I do not consider binding myself to you to be something done on a mere 'whim,' I consider it something I am willing to do to maintain the timeline, to guard the sanctity _of time itself_. To achieve that goal, I would do many things," Croaker said, eyes boring into Harry's.

"You still haven't explained why you know this — I've read up on Blood Magic from more than one source — we thought it might offer a solution, before we became desperate enough to risk time travel — and I've only seen it mentioned once. It's...suspicious...that you'd know it."

Croaker sighed. "I don't know it — one of my colleagues submitted it as a theoretical alternative to the Time-Turner. An alternate identity that would allow a person to be in two places at once if they were to travel through time without the protection of the Time-Turner. Of course, it was never utilized, since sanctioned time-travel has been outlawed since 1899."

"So you don't know it," Harry said.

"I can look it up — the book has been turned over to the Department as part of her report." Harry found the idea of that significantly more appealing than trusting to Croaker's generosity, all things considered.

"Well, thank you," Harry said, "I would like to see the ritual before we go through with it, but I'm willing to accept that it is in fact a viable option." It seemed rather unnecessary to keep holding Croaker's wand at this point, so he offered it back to him, which the Unspeakable accepted immediately.

"You'll forgive me, though, if I don't take you up on your offer," Harry continued. Croaker nodded, expecting that much.

After a moment of consideration, Harry's first thought was Sirius — he wasn't a Black, but Sirius was the closest thing he'd ever had to a real family. He'd be honored to be publicly claimed by Sirius, even if he had to take a different name because of it.

The Weasleys, too, were high on his list. He'd been more or less an honorary Weasley, and had been considering asking Ginny to marry him shortly before her death — when everything truly went to the dogs — or, perhaps more appropriately, the zombies.

Either of those families would undoubtedly be more than willing to help him. Or, rather, they would be willing to help Harry Potter, who, as Croaker kept reminding him, he could no longer be.

So, in order to enlist any of these people's help, he would have to explain to them who he was, and that was indeed something of a problem. He'd have to convince them to take his word, and reveal everything to them — why he'd come back, and, indeed, how badly he'd failed. He really didn't want to do that. Besides, there was a part of him that wondered whether he truly deserved their high opinion of him.

So, it looked like Croaker's offer was a decent one. But wait —

Family. Family vaults — the cup! It was hidden in the Lestrange's vault, their family vault. A claimed relative would be able to access it, which meant he wouldn't have to break into the goblin bank a second time — he wasn't quite sure how he was going to manage that, considering he had no Ron, no Hermione, and, perhaps most importantly, no Griphook. It would be a coup to get that blood, but he would need a plan. Bellatrix wouldn't be willing to claim just anyone, which would be tricky, but doable. With the right disguise, he might be able to make it work.

"I think I have someone, then." It wouldn't be his first choice as a new identity, but he would prefer a little infamy due to a name to the eternal hatred of the goblins, anyway.

"You're sure? And you're sure you can do this tonight?"

"I can," he said. "I was planning on doing something like it tonight anyway, I just took the detour to find you." And breaking into Azkaban was a hell of a lot more doable than Gringotts.

"It's a very lucky thing you did," Croaker said.

Harry just smiled weakly.

"How long do you think it will take you to get the blood?"

"I'm not sure. Probably not too long — maybe an hour or two?"

"Just one. When you're done, meet me back here in two hours," Croaker ordered.

"Aren't we going to get the book, first?"

"I would need to go alone."

"Then I'll wait for you," Harry said. "I'm not committing to anything until I see this ritual for myself."

"I suppose that's fair," Croaker agreed. "I'll return shortly, then."

Harry glanced around, committing the place to memory. "Where are we, anyway?"

"Ah. This is the Forest of Dean, actually."

Harry laughed at that. Croaker gave him a curious look, and he explained.

"It's just — well, that friend, the one that helped me put this together, her go-to Apparition point in a crisis was the Forest of Dean."

"I see," Croaker said, with eyebrows raised. Harry felt a twinge at the thought of Hermione — she really should have been able to make the trip with him, or, better yet, the one making the trip instead of him, but they had been surprised only a week before the right date. He should have been more alert, faster, stronger, but he hadn't been, and Hermione had died, too, leaving him truly alone.

Shaking himself out of his reverie — they had no time to dawdle, he nodded at Croaker. "Well, if this all pans out, I suppose I owe you an apology, and a thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Croaker said.

And then, the man Disapparated.

* * *

"Caww! Caww! Caawwwww!" the cry pierced the quiet night.

A crow landed landed on the side of the stone roof of Azkaban, far above the crushing waves of the North Sea. It was small for its kind, a member of the species Corvus corone, commonly known as the carrion crow.

The most remarkable thing about it, however, was that it had green eyes.

Harry had always felt freer in the air. It was the reason he enjoyed Quidditch so much — he was never going to love the game in quite the same way that Ron had, but he loved to fly, and Quidditch was a very good reason to fly regularly.

So, really, it wasn't very much of a surprise that his Animagus form was that of a bird. It also happened to be dead useful for sneaking into places — crows were pretty inconspicuous as birds went.

The only problem was that he didn't exactly know where he was going — one prison window looked identical to all the others. He took off from the side of the building, circling around again and landing on the outermost window of the prison's top level. Peering inside, he saw a sallow, pockmarked man, stopped low and nearly comatose on his bunk.

Augustus Rookwood.

Not who he needed to see. Harry turned around and a short jaunt through the air put him on the next window over.

In this cell, there was a man with a long, thin, twisted face set in a permanently cruel expression.

Dolohov? Harry thought so. Either way, still not who he was looking for.

As he was turning around, the man heard him and looked up. His face twisted even further, and he yelled, "Bloody birds! Go away!"

And he threw a tiny piece of rock — which was surprisingly well-aimed — up at Harry.

Indignant, Harry screeched at him and took off again, making his way to the next cell's window.

Bloody Death Eaters. No respect, the lot of them.

This, however, he had more luck. A squat, short wizard who was sitting on a ratty cot and staring blankly at the wall of his cell.

...Rodolphus Lestrange? Or Rabastan?

If Harry had eyebrows, he would have been frowning. For the first time, it occurred to him that while he knew the man below him was a Lestrange, he wasn't actually sure which brother was which — he knew one was tall and thin and the other one was short and squat, but that was terribly unhelpful.

He could guess, but that probably wouldn't work out totally well in his favor. Actually...huh. The plan didn't actually require him to know which one was which. They just needed to believe their implanted memories. It wasn't as if it really mattered — he would be able to tell the moment he stepped into the man's mind.

He quietly fluttered down, into the cell, and transformed back into a person. The chill of Azkaban, previously something that he barely noticed, seemed to press in around him. Harry spent a minute or two to master himself, feeling terribly vulnerable without his dagger. The Dementors were not allowed in the prisoners' cells. He would be fine. He took a deep breath, then looked at the cell's other occupant.

Rodolphus — or possibly Rabastan — gave no reaction.

" _Petrificus Totalus,_ " Harry said calmly. The spell flashed out, and the man toppled over, arms bound to his sides and legs trapped together.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Then he leaned in and looked in the man's dark eyes. They were staring blankly ahead — he had to wonder whether there was anyone home.

He stared deeply into those unmoving pools of black, holding his wand out between them. He felt himself slip below the surface, as if he was diving into a pool of water.

The man was Rodolphus, and he was rather poor at defending his mind. Harry cast around, testing defenses, and found that what he wanted to do would be rather easy. Fortunate.

He swam through a number of years of the man's life, ranging from when he graduated Hogwarts, to his service under Voldemort, right up until her fall and his incarceration in Azkaban. This part of his memory was rather sparse — and thus, Harry was rather happy about how weak-minded Rodolphus seemed to be — if the implanted memories didn't quite match with what he remembered once he was out of the Dementor's influence, he very likely would not notice.

Once he'd seen everything he needed, he withdrew from the Death Eater's mind, and carefully considered the spells he was about to cast — erasing a number of memories, and planting a strong compulsion so that Rodolphus would accept new ones more easily than he normally would.

Then, he took a deep breath, and cast, " _Obliviate. Confundo._ "

If such a thing were possible, Rodolphus' eyes glazed over even more, and Harry dove back in, and began to fill in the gaps with memories — memories of having sired a daughter on his wife, of watching her grow from afar, and visiting her in France with copious amounts of presents every once in a while. A relationship that was warm, if distant.

A part of him realized that he was perhaps idealizing the Lestranges in these memories, but he couldn't imagine anyone having a child and not caring for them, even if they were Death Eaters. Planting false memories was a very difficult use of Legilimency, and while he was more skilled at it than Occlumency, memories that he could emotionally access were easier — both to make, and to make stick.

Of course, that was one of the main benefits of the Confundus — the spell itself only urged him to accept the fact that he had a daughter — but it created a chink, or perhaps a stutter, in his memories — Lestrange would be predisposed to take the memories he was being given and accept them, and unless he had an unusually strong will, he would still think they were his own once the Confundus wore off. Once he was done, he left Rodolphus' mind, and made sure he wouldn't remember anything.

After a quick levitation onto the bed, and once he'd put Rodolphus into an enchanted sleep, he was done, and so he became a crow again, and took flight up to the window.

"Caww!" One down, two more to go.

In the next cell, he found the tall, thin, squirrelly-looking man that was Rodolphus' brother Rabastan. Another bit of luck, then.

This time, when he fluttered down to the cell and transformed back into a human, Rabastan, unlike his brother, reacted, jumping up, and shouting, "Who the ruddy—"

Harry cut him off with another Full-Body Bind.

Rabastan toppled to the ground like a bowling pin, expression locked into fury. Harry repeated the process that he had used on Rodolphus, altered for the fact that Rabastan would be an uncle instead of a father. Unlike his brother, however, Rabastan seemed to be actively resisting Harry's attempts.

Instead of a pool of clear water, Rabastan's mind felt like navigating through a flowing river — the memories and associated feelings were rushing by, too fast for Harry to achieve the same kind of precision in re-writing his memories. Harry couldn't scan nearly was well, here, although, in all honestly — unless there was something vital or significant about Rodolphus and Bellatrix not having children, he could very likely just add a set of memories of having a niece that he sporadically saw, even if his Memory Charms weren't totally on point.

But that might be a bit of a risk — he knew that Rabastan had known that his brother and sister-in-law were childless, and he couldn't imagine him not remembering that often enough that he might miss something.

But, at the same time, he could very likely err on the side of caution, and if Rabastan was missing a number of memories from his life as a Death Eater? If he was somewhat more thorough than he needed to be...could a Confundus force someone to fill in memories? He could try it. And he could reasonably check, too, with Legilimency…

That could work.

He pulled out of Rabastan's mind. " _Obliviate. Confundo_."

The man's eyes went blank, and Harry dove back into the significantly-calmed waters. He added memories where it was necessary, and, as far as he could tell, the Confundus was working as he'd intended.

If he wanted to do this right, he'd have to come back in a few days and see what Rabastan remembered.

He finished quickly, well aware he was on a timetable, and straightened up to disguise himself for his next visit. Although 'disguise' wasn't quite the right word — he was only really changing one thing, although making it convincing was rather difficult.

He left Rabastan in an enchanted sleep on his cot in the dingy cell, fluttering back up to the window.

"Caww! Cawwww!" He felt the anticipation unfurl in his crow's chest, as he flew to the next window.

A dark-haired witch sat, humming quietly to herself, her face sunken and pale.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Of the three people he had planned on visiting tonight, she was by far the most important — it was her blood he would need in order to gain access to her vault, and blood was always something that needed to be _given_ in order to have power. Magically coercing he like he had Rabastan and Rodolphus wouldn't work, not in the same way — someone needed to willingly acknowledge him, Croaker had said. Even the Imperius Curse wouldn't be able to produce a useful sample. That was the salient difference between the belief in the the ritual's effects, and active participation in it — belief could be magically compelled, but for the ritual to have power, it had to be entirely voluntary.

And to do that, he needed to negotiate — he needed to somehow to convince her to part willingly with her blood. If he wanted to be successful, he would have to look past the fact that she'd killed the closest thing he'd had to a father, and that he could very happily murder her and consider the world better off for it. After all, he needed to be someone on her side — a loyal servant of Voldemort, at least until the ritual had solidified his identity strongly enough that time didn't collapse.

He let out one final cry and fluttered down into the cell, regaining human form. Bellatrix stopped humming and looked up, startled, but didn't react beyond cocking her head, scrutinizing Harry.

He stared back, trying to focus on his Occlumency, trying to ignore that he'd like nothing more than to start flinging Unforgivable Curses, to make her feel just a tiny bit of the pain she'd caused everyone else — him especially. It would be _easy_ , and perhaps even better, it would be _right_.

After a moment, Bellatrix huffed and snickered. "Well, what do you want?"

Harry refused to let any of his feelings affect his tone. "A bargain, Madam Lestrange," he said evenly.

She didn't say anything, merely raised her eyebrows. Harry took a second to goggle inwardly at the fact that in Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors, was the most lucid he'd so far seen her. He'd always imagined the inside of Azkaban as a place filled only with madness and insanity, where the entire population screamed themselves hoarse. Maybe it was an off day, or something.

This was unpleasant, but if he concentrated on the thought of making the cruel woman squirm with a curse, he could almost forget the Dementors were there, just lurking out of sight.

But he noted that she was still silently imploring him to continue, so he simply said, "I need a bit of your blood—"

She _cackled_. Harry felt a chill go down his spine at the sound, transported back to that one terrible night in the Department of Mysteries. She'd killed Sirius. He wanted to kill her. But, he couldn't — he needed her.

"So, that's what it is then? Well, ickle crow-girl, I know all the nasty little things a nasty little girl like you could do with my blood. No."

But, Harry was ready for her refusal. Refusing to let his trepidation show, he rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a black tattoo of a snake coming out of the mouth of a skull. "And what will you do when I tell our Mistress that you weren't willing to comply with her directions?"

Bellatrix jumped up at that — Harry's wand snapped up to point at her — but she didn't make any threatening moves.

Her dark eyes gleamed fervently, as she replied, "The Dark Lady trusts me above all her other servants! You, I don't know. I don't trust—"

"Perhaps you might let me explain why I am here and not the Dark Lady," Harry chided. "She has ordered me to acquire your blood, for two reasons — one, I have been her loyal servant in exile, after I found her wandering the forests of Albania, her power broken—" he held up a hand to stall her protests, "—I am merely stating the facts. Now, my original identity has become...inconvenient. I need a new one. And thus, the Dark Lady thought she might honor me with the name of her most loyal servant. I, of course, accepted — provided I could convince you.

"And secondly, the Dark Lady entrusted you with an artifact, something she regards as very precious to her." At this statement, the crazy witch's eyes widened. Harry felt his heart pound — revealing his knowledge of the cup was a calculated move.

Bellatrix snapped, "And what if she has? It was given to _me_ , and I have protected it. It is _safe_!"

"I'm sure it is," Harry said ingratiatingly. "But the Dark Lady would like to verify that for herself. Your brother-in-law, Lucius Malfoy, did not take care of the object she entrusted to him. In fact, he allowed it to be destroyed, and suffered her wrath for it. On the night of her resurrection, the Dark Lady found that a third object had been stolen — and such, you must understand that she needs to ensure the safety of the rest. And while she undoubtedly appreciates your...willingness to remain loyal to the cause, the fact remains that there are no Lestranges free to check the status of your vault.

"And so, the Dark Lady saw fit to kill two birds with one stone — I will be hidden from the authorities from my home country, and I will also be able to ensure that Hufflepuff's Cup is safe in the Lestrange vault."

Bellatrix slowly began to pace, muttering to herself. Inside, he wondered, not for the first time, whether it wouldn't just be easier to find someone else — to just kill her here and now, and find someone else's, even Croaker's, blood to use. This behavior persisted for about a minute, before Bellatrix stopped and her eyes met Harry's.

"So you seek to replace me, then? Usurp my position as the Dark Lady's most favored!?"

Harry pursed his lips, frustrated. He probably should have seen this coming — Bellatrix coveted her position as Voldemort's favorite, and she would naturally see the Horcrux as a sign of that position.

"You misunderstand me. My orders are not to remove the cup from the vault," Harry said, feeling like he was arguing with a brick wall. "But you can blame Lucius Malfoy for a loss of the Dark Lady's trust. She will no longer take your word that the cup is safe."

"And I am supposed to believe this? Little crow-girl, I have heard nothing to prove you are not lying. How am I to know that it is not you who are stealing from the Dark Lady?"

But Harry had had enough.

" _Crucio_!"

He let out all of his hate, and frustration, not just at her, but at himself, about both the time travel and the fact that he had reached a place in his life where he was trying to negotiate with Bellatrix Fucking Lestrange, his least favorite person.

Bellatrix screamed and writhed under the Cruciatus, crying out and flailing pitifully. Harry felt darkly satisfied, even as he felt the rush blood thundering through his brain. He knew that this wasn't the most constructive way to channel his anger, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Harry held the curse for what had to be a minute before releasing it, leaving the twitching witch to writhe on the ground.

"I am tired of you questioning my loyalty, and I find myself disgusted at the implication that you think I am doing this for my own personal gain," Harry seethed, his irritation not entirely faked. "Do not imply that I am not loyal again, or you will find why the Dark Lady values my services so highly."

"Oh, so the little crow-girl has claws," Bellatrix giggled. "Does the widdle girl think that her big scawy curse hurt big bad Bella?"

"No. But it did make me feel better."

Bellatrix laughed again.

"What do you want?" Harry asked tiredly. "I have demonstrated her trust, and my devotion. I don't _need_ your blood — it would be extremely inconvenient, yes, but I have robbed goblins and evaded governments before, and I can do so again. Really, you need me more than I need you. My loyalty to our Mistress is not in question — merely your ability to look past your own pride and do what she asks of you."

"You dare question—"

"I dare! I do! I question your devotion if you cannot accept the thought that your orders do not come in person! That in the fourteen years that you have been stuck in Azkaban, your Mistress has come to rely on someone else! Your loyalty may be unquestioned, yes, but you are _useless_ to her here."

At this pronouncement, she was upon him, a mad whirlwind of flailing, bony limbs. Harry could barely get his wand up to defend himself, and he only had time for the first spell that came to his mind.

" _Crucio_!"

The heady sensation returned, and Bellatrix screamed, falling to the ground again. Harry only held the spell for a few seconds, before he let her go. As much as the thought of sitting around and torturing her all night appealed to him, he had a schedule to keep.

"Are you done?" he asked impatiently.

Bellatrix just huffed something that sounded halfway between a snicker and a sob.

Harry, however, was in no mood for dramatics. "I will ask only this last time. My time is short. Will you offer your blood and your name to the Dark Lady's service?"

If he hadn't seen it, Harry might have had trouble believing how quickly Bellatrix transformed into a pouting child.

"Fine. You win, little crow-girl," she said petulantly.

"I will be sure to tell the Dark Lady of your commitment to her cause," Harry said. Bellatrix didn't look pleased at that, but she didn't protest either.

He held out a flask, and she grudgingly took it, putting her arm out over the top. He sliced her arm open with a cutting curse, and Bellatrix watched, fascinated, as the blood dripped down, filling the flask.

Then, she offered the flask to Harry, filled with her blood. Harry reached out to take it, but Bellatrix held firm.

"Promise you won't steal my cup, little crow-girl," she implored. "Swear it to me on the blood I give you, on the claim I make on you as family."

"I swear," Harry said carefully, "on the Mark that unites us both in service to the Lady."

Bellatrix's eyes lit up at the thought. Harry breathed in relief at the bullet he'd dodged.

"Then I name you Corvus Lestrange, little crow-girl, and claim you as mine." This time, Bellatrix had used the nickname as an endearment, and Harry suddenly found himself wishing she would go back to mocking him with it.

Bellatrix let go, and slumped back against the wall of her cell. Harry got up, nodded rather awkwardly to Bellatrix, and left out the window in the shape of a crow.

* * *

Harry had not sorted himself out by the time he reappeared in the Forest of Dean at dusk to find Croaker waiting, a cauldron bubbling away on a small table next to him.

Harry allowed himself to breathe a few sighs of relief, relieved that he had successfully bluffed his way into getting the blood. He looked down, and noticed that his sleeve was still rolled up, and the fake Mark he'd created still visible. He tapped it with his wand, and his arm was bare once more. The feeling of somehow being sullied by his actions bearing it, however, remained the same.

With a particularly aggrieved sigh, Harry turned to Croaker, not sure how familiar he wanted to be.

He was saved for thinking of an opener, however, when the Unspeakable spoke first. "Find everything you needed?"

In lieu of answering, Harry pulled the flask of Bellatrix's blood from his robes, and held it out.

"Good," said Croaker, taking it. "And this blood was given, not taken, correct?"

He met Harry's eyes evenly, without emotion. "Given," Harry asserted.

"Everything alright?" Croaker asked.

"I'm fine," Harry said, even if he didn't feel fine. "I just want to get this whole thing over with, really."

"Yes, well, the sooner we create your new identity, the less work there will be for the Obliviators, and the less paperwork I have to do," said Croaker gruffly. "Do you have a name?"

"Yes," Harry replied, though he didn't elaborate. He wasn't sure how he felt about the name, either.

Croaker squinted at him, but didn't ask. "Well, on with it, I suppose," he said. Then he grimaced. "You have to be — well, you can't wear a shirt for this."

"Oh." Harry felt his cheeks turning bright pink. "Right — the sigil. I thought that was a little weird that it used a sigil — I've never seen blood magic use that before."

Croaker, however, ignored that comment. "The sigil is actually the personal mark of the creator of the ritual, a man called Percival the Pompous. The ritual doesn't work without it, but it must be drawn on the recipients' stomach. It's not totally clear why it's necessary for it to be that particular emblem, whether it's somehow magically potent, or whether Percival designed it that way purposefully, or whether it's just a coincidence."

"Huh. That's very interesting," Harry said. "Alright, what do you need me to do?"

"Well, I'm just about done. You might want to create a place to sit, or lie down, so I can paint the sigil on you, and I'll need a decent light source to see by."

The shadows of the forest were long enough that the small grove was lit only by the fire that sat under Croaker's cauldron, so it would probably be difficult to paint something small and detailed on skin.

Harry got to work, first conjuring up a slightly lumpy cot — his cots were always a bit lumpy, even if he could do armchairs fine — maybe it was the result of growing up with an exceptionally lumpy bed in his cupboard. Then, he added in a couple of bluebell flames in jars for illumination, casting a gentle blue glow over everything.

He sat down nervously on the cot, and took off his shirt, feeling both cold and exposed.

"Ready?" Croaker asked.

Harry thought about Neville's hatred of the people who had taken away his parents, about Sirius' disdain for his family, of Molly Weasley's murder of Bellatrix at the Battle of Hogwarts, of Bellatrix herself, murderous and insane, and the fact that she'd believed him a servant of the Dark Lady as easily as she had.

He was in no way ready.

"I'm ready," he said.

Croaker turned, and handed him a small flask. "Drink this when I tell you to. And lie back. I need a solid surface to work on — Percival the Pompous' sigil is finicky and complicated."

Harry did so, and forced himself to relax. He told himself again that there was no better option — he could not break into Gringotts without goblin help, and no goblin would help him break into Gringotts without Voldemort's influence growing far more than he was comfortable allowing.

It was the only way — and yet, something wet and cold and uncomfortable curled in his gut, something that had nothing to do with the fact that Croaker was painting strange symbols on his bare stomach.

As he stared up into the sky, he heard a rustling coming from the direction above the top of his head — he twisted his head up a bit, trying not to move his navel area, and looked, upside-down, in that direction.

A Muggle stood there, small torch held loosely in one hand, gaping at him. Harry had two thoughts — one, that it was rather strange that Croaker apparently hadn't prepared any spells to ward away Muggles — and two, that this scene must look very strange indeed to a Muggle.

Harry raised his head, and called, "Croaker, there's a Muggle."

"What?" the Unspeakable asked, looking at him. Harry reached around and pointed, looking back at the Muggle.

"Oh," Croaker said, "Shite, I forgot to put up a charm. Forgot we were just out in public. My hands are a bit full now. Can you take care of him without moving too much?"

By this time, Harry could see that the Muggle had recovered his wits. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, miss," he said, nodding at each of them. "Sorry to interrupt — well, whatever you're into, I'm not judging — but, do either of you happen to know how to get back to the road? I'm a bit lost, y'see…" he trailed off, rather perturbed and extremely red.

"Oh," Harry said. "I'm afraid I don't — where's my wand?" He scrambled around for it with his free hand, but it was on the other side of his body, and therefore out of reach. It was extremely difficult to stretch at all while keeping such a central part of his body perfectly still, and he couldn't shift around at all.

"If you spill, or make me mess up, so help me," Croaker warned. "We'll have to start over, and I'll be _very_ unhappy. Trust me, this is not how I wanted to spend my evening."

"Oh," said the Muggle. "I suppose — well, I suppose I'll let you get to it. You look — er, well — you look very busy."

Harry still hadn't reached his wand. "Ahh, bugger it all. _Accio Wand_." It zoomed from the far end of the cot, and into his waiting hand.

"Oh, wow—"

" _Obliviate_!" Harry said. The Muggle's eyes glazed over. "Now, shoo. The nearest road is that way." He pointed in a random direction. The Muggle obediently slouched off that way.

Once he had gone, Croaker said mildly, "You probably didn't have to erase his memory, you know."

Harry's response was arctic. "Of course, and what if he did see something? Would you like to be responsible for the death of all of us, when the Muggles take notice because we're too lazy to bother? When they start to meddle in things they shouldn't? Do you want that on your conscience, Croaker?"

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"I don't know what caused it," Harry said softly. "That's why I came back, when I did, though, so I could figure that out and stop it. But until that day comes, I'm not taking any chances. I'm not going to let _Muggles_ of all things destroy us all."

Croaker didn't say anything to that, so they lapsed into silence. Harry was the first to break it.

"There was something that occurred to me, after we'd parted ways," Harry said. "Voldemort—" Croaker flinched, "—was a man in the past I came from."

Croaker's head snapped up so fast Harry swore he heard his neck crack. "You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"So it's not just through time, you've traveled into a different past. Any other differences?"

"Not that I know of," Harry admitted. "But I've only been here for a day."

"I'm afraid I don't have any reasonable explanation. But it's relevant, so thank you," Croaker said. Then, he looked at Harry, scrutinizing him closely.

"Unless it had to do with your fates being bound together?" he asked.

"I used to be—" Harry started, but Croaker cut across him.

"Don't tell me your name. Remember? You're becoming someone else. But I think I know what you were trying to say," he gestured towards Harry's scar. "I can't tell you definitively, because I don't know, but maybe the magic that changed you had to change You-Know-Who too. Maybe your...souls are too closely tied for the magic to only affect one of you."

Harry thought that sounded rather reasonable. But — "But wouldn't the current version of me be more closely tied to Voldemort?" Croaker shrugged.

"It's just a theory. That kind of magic isn't very well-understood."

Harry nodded, and they lapsed into silence after that.

After a few minutes, Croaker straightened up, set down his brush and potion, and picked up his wand. Harry sat up as well.

"Alright, I'm going to finish, and then you'll need to drink the potion immediately after I say go. Three. Two. One. Drink." There wasn't really an incantation — Croaker simply tapped the sigil with his wand, and it lit up with a red glow.

Harry downed the foul-smelling liquid. It burned going down, and Harry registered falling backwards onto the cot, feeling like his throat was on fire. It had nothing on Voldemort's Cruciatus, though, and he soon found himself staring up at the sky, fearing for the worst concerning his new appearance.

However, Harry had never been one for unnecessarily delaying the inevitable, so he sat up soon afterwards, and fixed Croaker with a look.

Croaker's eyes went wide and he turned a few shades paler.

"That bad, huh?" Harry asked.

He recovered quickly enough, though, and cleared his throat. "Well, I don't suppose I need to ask where you got that blood now — or your choice in temporary arm tattoos."

"Mmmm," Harry said. "It's — well, it's not what I would ever have chosen, but it saves me having to break into Gringotts, and well, needs must." He felt the need to justify his choice to Croaker, who merely raised his eyebrows, but otherwise didn't react.

"I thought ahead," Croaker said, and he produced a small mirror, and handed it to Harry. Harry looked up at the sky once, and then he took a deep breath, and —

The resemblance was uncanny.

Harry was honestly sort of hoping that the ritual wouldn't do that much, and that he'd still look like Harry — not that he really looked all that much like himself since traveling to the past in the first place, but, he'd be lying if he claimed that he wanted to look at all like Bellatrix.

Unfortunately, it wasn't looking like he would get his wish. He did, in fact, look quite a bit like Bellatrix — he had her eyes, now, heavy-lidded and wild-looking. They were still green, but only just — it was only by scrutinizing them very carefully up close that he could tell that they weren't black. His face, too, was sharper, and his lips thinner — he looked more like Malfoy, now, or Sirius. And the hair — his untidy black waves had curled out a bit, and gotten thicker, if not any more manageable.

All in all, he looked like the woman he despised most in the world — who also happened to be one of the most infamous criminals in Wizarding Britain. How pleasant.

"I — well, was it supposed to work this well?" Harry asked, rather desperately. Even his voice had changed a bit — less of a throaty rasp and more high-pitched.

"I've only seen it used once before, and no, it didn't work quite like that then," Croaker said.

"Ah."

"Maybe, well — it could possibly have something to do with how much the blood donor wants to recognize you as a relative — in the one ritual I've seen before, the person who was giving the blood was rather...grudging."

Harry understood what Croaker was implying, and he unfortunately couldn't disagree with the man's logic. It was, in fact, very likely that Bellatrix wanted him to look just like her — anything less than that might be interpreted as defying Voldemort's instructions.

"I suppose that makes a great deal of sense," Harry admitted. "If it concerns Voldemort, let no one say that Bellatrix isn't willing to go the distance."

Croaker flinched again. Harry ignored him.

"But, either way, thank you," he continued. "I couldn't have done this without you."

"It was nothing. I've got at least three new projects that you've given me inspiration for. Who knows, maybe the Head Unspeakable will give us leave to try and replicate your travel."

"Oh. Well, that's good, I suppose?" Harry ventured.

Croaker nodded.

Harry felt oddly indebted to him, seeing as how he had been so helpful. "Well, if you need anything in return, send me an owl — they should be able to find me as Corvus Lestrange."

"I shall," Croaker said. "Until next time, then."

Harry turned away and Disapparated. This visit to the bank was already coming at a high enough of a price — and he hadn't even met a goblin yet.


	3. Defense Against the Dark Arts

I don't own Harry Potter.

Also, another perspective switch, but this one should be pretty obvious.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**  
 **Defense Against the Dark Arts**

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,

It has come to my attention that this year, like every year, you are in need of a new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. I would like to submit my application for the position. I understand that no one has held the position for more than a year, and I am aware of the circumstances surrounding the fates of numerous past teachers.

I assure you, these things do not deter me. Enclosed are my N.E.W.T. qualifications.

I look forward to hearing from you,

Corvus Lestrange

* * *

Dear Ms. Lestrange,

I would like to invite you to Hogwarts to interview for the position on Monday, the fifth of July, at eleven o'clock in the morning. The Deputy Headmistress will meet you at the gate.

Regards,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards)

* * *

Harry fidgeted with the hem of his coat — a Muggle women's business coat, bought with Lestrange gold and worn very purposefully to distance himself from that name — as he stood outside the gates of Hogwarts. It was part of an entirely Muggle professional ensemble, consisting of the pinstriped black coat, matching slacks, and a cream-colored blouse. He had even conceded to wearing a pair of woman's shoes, although he had staunchly refused any with heels.

His discomfort was only exacerbated by the heat of the July morning — it was shaping up to be one of the worst summers on record, as it was dreadfully hot. He very much wished that Professor McGonagall would hurry up and greet him soon, although a part of him was dreading that meeting.

He would be lying to himself if he wasn't worried about how she would react. He would also admit that he had sort of chickened out during the trip to Diagon Alley — he had only visited Gringotts, and even then, he had went in with a hood concealing his face during the late evening, when there would be very few people around.

The goblins did not discriminate — in that they desired every wizard's gold equally — so this was his first exposure to the larger Wizarding World in his new identity, and he did not have high expectations for the reactions of most people. Dumbledore, of course, did not judge people based on appearances, but he was sadly an outlier.

Harry also had to admit that if he had met someone claiming to be Bellatrix's daughter, he would admittedly think the worst of them, as well, so he reminded himself not to hold that against anyone.

He also now had two Horcruxes — today, ideally, he would acquire a third, and make inroads on the fourth. After he visited the Room of Requirement, it would be necessary to gain access to...Sirius' house. He could not currently recall the name, which meant it was very likely to be under the Fidelius Charm, and so, in order to find Slytherin's Locket before Mundungus filched it, he would need to become a member of the Order of the Phoenix, which required a favorable first impression on Dumbledore.

And speaking of favorable first impressions, the gates of Hogwarts creaked open. Minerva McGonagall stood there, wearing her customary tartan robes and severe expression.

"Miss Lestrange?" she asked. If she was a tad more terse than usual, he chalked it down to the heat.

"In the flesh. It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor McGonagall," Harry replied.

"Likewise, I am sure. Come along."

Harry followed in her wake up the rolling green lawns of the castle. She did not immediately volunteer any more, and he felt it was best to follow her example. It had been a long time since he had seen Hogwarts so whole. It was a pleasant sight, and he couldn't help but drink in the view — the tall, impressive castle was a very pretty picture framed against the lake.

Professor McGonagall had apparently noticed, as she commented with no small hint of pride, "It's an impressive sight the first time."

Harry realized that he couldn't reasonably claim to have seen Hogwarts before with his invented history, so he channeled Viktor Krum and admitted, "Durmstrang is not nearly so impressive."

"So I've heard," Professor McGonagall replied, a hint of a smile in her voice. She didn't slow her pace, or offer anything else, however, and they were up to the castle in short order.

Harry was very much used to Hogwarts being full of students, and the quiet that accompanied their absence was disorienting. There was a suspicious lack of the semi-audible background noise that came with the hundreds of students going to class.

Their footsteps — McGonagall's brisk, echoing clicks, and his softer, more hesitant clacks — sounded through the entrance hall, lit by the blazing late morning sunlight.

It was cooler inside, the old stone emanating a soothing chill, and Harry found himself relaxing a bit. Something about the simple physical pleasure of being back at Hogwarts — back at the place where he'd always felt he'd belonged — was reassuring. And Professor McGonagall was still reliably her strict, but fair, self. If nothing else, he felt as if coming here was the right decision.

He was also very much looking forward to seeing Dumbledore again. Even the later revelations that Dumbledore was as fallible as the next man weren't enough to dull his fondness for the old Headmaster.

Harry couldn't really think of anything to break the silence — not that it was an oppressive or awkward one, just one in which both people had nothing to say, and no desire to fill it. So they walked through the quiet castle, the clicks and clacks of their footsteps the only noise throughout its large halls.

They eventually arrived at the Headmaster's Office, in front of the ugly stone gargoyle. Professor McGonagall gave the password, "Cockroach Cluster," and gestured for Harry to go up.

"The Headmaster is waiting," she said. Harry nodded his thanks, and stepped up onto the revolving stone staircase.

At the top, there was a familiar polished oak door, complete with brass knocker, which Harry knocked.

"Come in," Dumbledore's voice sounded.

Harry opened the door, and stepped inside, shutting it behind him. He was greeted by the sight of a circular room, the walls covered in portraits, all of whom were looking very curiously at him, but trying to conceal their curiosity. This led to a number of them looking at him out of the corner of their eyes, or behind curtains of hair, or under lowered lashes.

But what held his interest was the old, white-haired man sitting behind the desk. His long white beard was comfortably tucked into the belt of his soft turquoise robes, and twinkling blue eyes sat behind gold-rimmed spectacles, which were perched on his long, crooked nose.

"Mr. Dumbledore?" Harry made sure to ask.

"The very same," Dumbledore said. "And you are Miss Lestrange?"

"I am."

"Please, sit down." Harry obliged, sitting in a chair in front of the desk. He passed Fawkes on his perch beside the door. The phoenix eyed him carefully, and he met its gaze head-on.

Fawkes didn't protest him sitting down, so he just nodded to the bird, who blinked back.

"Thank you," he said, once he was seated.

"Would you like a drink?" Dumbledore asked.

"I would, thanks," Harry replied. Dumbledore got up, and served both of them some chilled wine. Harry accepted it gratefully.

He also noticed the Sword of Gryffindor and the Sorting Hat behind Dumbledore, but he didn't let himself dwell among memories. Today, he had to be Covus Lestrange, and she had never set foot in Hogwarts before today.

"How are you, Mr. Dumbledore?" Harry asked politely.

"I'm quite good, thank you. In fact, just this morning I bested my old friend Elphias Doge at tenpin bowling — quite an accomplishment for me, you see, as I must confess to be a rather poor bowler."

Harry was slightly taken aback. "...oh. I was under the impression that you were a good bowler. It's — well, it's on your Chocolate Frog card. I just supposed that meant it was something you were rather skilled at."

"Well, Ms. Lestrange, I think you'll find that my card states that I merely enjoy the game. You see, if I have learned anything in my long years of life, it's that if you cannot learn to do something well, then at least learn to enjoy doing it badly."

"Oh," Harry said, still a bit nonplussed. "That's rather good advice, I think."

"I would say so myself. Now — how was your journey?"

Harry blinked. "Pardon?"

"Well, I was unaware that the Lestranges had a child before your letter. While I don't pretend to know everything that goes on in Britain, I do know that you also did not attend Hogwarts. Thus it's a reasonable assumption to say that you are not from this country. And so, your coming here would constitute a 'journey.' My apologies if I was presumptuous, but it seemed a safe guess, and my guesses are usually very good," Dumbledore confessed.

"No, you've caught me. I was raised on the Continent. If the journey was not pleasant, it's because I've never been particularly fond of most methods of magical travel. Still, you have a very nice castle."

"Well, thank you. I'm sure she will appreciate the compliment," Dumbledore said.

Harry frowned. "Er — pardon? Who?"

"Hogwarts, of course."

"Oh," Harry said, "I see," even though he didn't quite understand. Hogwarts wasn't alive, as far as he understood it. But then again, everyone agreed that the Headmaster was quite odd — although he seemed to be playing up that peculiarity today.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and then picked up the papers in front of him, rearranging them in front of them.

"Well, I have received your qualifications, but I unfortunately don't know anything about you, Miss Lestrange. Why would you say that you are the right person for this job?" he asked.

Harry couldn't contain his snort. "You mean, outside of the obvious? The fact that my parents are infamous for their use of the Dark Arts?"

Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Yes, aside from the obvious. Let us pretend, for the next few minutes, that I do not recognize your name at all."

"Ah," Harry said. "I believe the first, and perhaps most important thing I can offer you, is that I attended Durmstrang. That, coupled with my N.E.W.T. in Defense, cover the legitimate qualifications I can claim.

"But I don't think want to hear things that you've read already. I can tell you that I was uncommonly talented in our Dark Arts classes, and it's always been my best subject. I taught a study group on the subject in my fifth year, because the teacher was inadequate. I've also defeated many wizards and witches who are both far older and far more skilled in the magical arts than I. I've never been in a duel in my life — only desperate struggles to stay alive. I know that it's not always about how much magic, or how many curses you know, but what you're willing to do to win. Put quite simply, Mr. Dumbledore, I can tell your students best how to defend against Dark witches and wizards, because I am one."

Dumbledore chuckled. "A bold claim to make for a teaching job."

"I wouldn't make it if I didn't believe it. It's something that I will not deny, and I can not escape," Harry said, leaning forward to pick up his wine. "And besides," he added. "Would you have believed me if I tried to convince you otherwise?"

"I suppose I would have been skeptical," Dumbledore admitted, eyes twinkling. "And yet, Fawkes approves of you — he might not welcome you, but he does not find you presence objectionable." He gestured towards the perch near the door, and Harry twisted around to look. The phoenix was sitting on his perch, and, seeing he was under scrutiny, he preened and squaked.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle this time.

"I can't say that I consider myself a bad judge of character, but I defer to Fawkes' superior wisdom," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "Now, indulge an old man's curiosity: Why do you _want_ to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?"

Harry met Dumbledore's gaze evenly over the rim of his wine glass. "I would be lying if I claimed that my motives were entirely altruistic. That being said, the primary reason that I would like this post is because I witnessed Voldemort's return over a week ago, and I believe that now, more than ever, students at this school need a solid education in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I also think — if you'll excuse my arrogance — you won't find a better candidate."

"I see," Dumbledore said, eyes on the unadorned hand holding the goblet up to Harry's mouth. "Am I correct in assuming that you are the one who came to Harry Potter's aid on that night the Thursday before last?"

Harry allowed himself to smile, knowing that it would look slightly sharp. One of the few perks of looking like Bellatrix Lestrange.

"I am. If nothing else, I would urge you to take that as proof that I am sincere in my desire to teach here."

"Miss Lestrange," Dumbledore said carefully. "I would first like to thank you for your intervention. I shudder to think of what might have happened if you weren't there."

"Oh, I don't know," Harry said. "I'm quite sure Harry would have been fine. He's made of pretty stern stuff, that boy."

Dumbledore beamed. "I do not doubt that for a minute. But, I am sure that Cedric Diggory, at least, will want to thank you."

Harry smiled back, more genuinely this time.

Dumbledore continued, "I'm very curious, though — everything I have heard so far about Voldemort's movements tell me that she is not focusing on building up her power, or gaining supporters. Instead, she is almost entirely focused on finding a certain witch — who I think we can both agree is you — almost to her detriment."

"Mr. Dumbledore, I think you and I both know that Voldemort does not suffer insults lightly. And I have dealt her a very great insult. I publicly defeated her in front of her inner circle, on the night of her resurrection — the event that was supposed to her crowning moment."

"You think it is only because of the insult you've offered?" Dumbledore asked indulgently. Harry had the feeling that he didn't quite buy this reasoning.

"Of course. I figured if she was trying to kill me, she wouldn't be trying to kill Harry."

"I think that's a very admirable reason. But, you are still young. Are you prepared to shoulder that kind of burden?"

Harry looked very seriously at Dumbledore. "I think I am better suited than Harry Potter, who, while resourceful and brave, is only fourteen. Like I said, I have fought for my life before. It is not unfamiliar territory for me."

Dumbledore offered a gentle smile at the implied rebuke. "Regardless, I am still happy to have found you. Would it be an imposition to ask you to testify to the Minister of Voldemort's return?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I think I could handle that. But if you think that Fudge will believe me any more than he will believe you or Harry Potter, you're very much mistaken, Mr. Dumbledore."

Dumbledore's smile did not dim in the slightest. "Oh, I doubt it will make much of a difference, but it is important to try, no?"

"Oh it is. It would also be best to make that meeting as visible as possible, I think."

"Why is that?"

"Well, if Voldemort wants to take another shot, I want to give her plenty of opportunities," Harry smiled another predatory smile at this. It had been entirely too long since he'd last been in a fight.

"Ah. I see. Well, my only advice to you is to be careful."

"Thank you." Harry also had to appreciate being treated like an adult.

Then Dumbledore met Harry's eyes evenly. "Now, Miss Lestrange, is there anything else you think it's important to tell me about why Voldemort might be hunting you?"

Harry carefully considered this. It was a favored tactic of Dumbledore — and it also meant that he didn't quite believe that Harry was telling the whole truth, and had noticed Harry's successful attempt to change the subject earlier. Unfortunately for Dumbledore, it had never worked on Harry.

"No, Mr. Dumbledore, I don't think so."

If Harry saw a small flash of disappointment in Dumbledore's eyes, he studiously ignored it. He might still have a great deal of respect for Dumbledore, but he didn't think that showing him his entire hand at this juncture was an ideal move. If he was going to do that, he was going to ensure that he had all the Horcruxes first.

But then Dumbledore smiled, and said, "Regardless, I think you'll do a fine job. But, unfortunately, I am in something of a tricky position. I am not saying that I will not hiring you, but I merely want to impress upon you the implications of taking the position. Will you hear me out, before you accept?"

Harry nodded, unsure of where he was going with this.

"There seems to be an unfortunate number of events that will undoubtedly conspire against you, if you do seek to take this post. With the return of Voldemort — admirable distractions you've provided aside — she will undoubtedly urge her supporters to act in her stead in the Ministry. The problem, of course, is that there is no real proof that she is back, and the Ministry already does not want to accept that she has returned. As such, she is very likely to regain a great deal of her former influence there very quickly, even if the disappearance of her public persona was inconvenient—"

"I'm sorry?" Harry asked, before he could help himself. "Her public persona?"

Dumbledore looked surprised. "You do not know? I am sorry, I assumed, based on who your parents were—"

"Er, they never really talked about that kind of stuff," Harry said hastily. "Not that I saw them very often, but they mostly talked about blood purity, and how Muggles were animals." His voice turned wry at the end, and he turned to Dumbledore, wanting to impress upon him the fact that he did not agree with that sentiment.

But Dumbledore was smiling, and he said, "I understand. I have long maintained that what truly defines a person is not who their parents were, or where they come from, but who they decide to be — and it is clear to me that you are not your parents, and that you have chosen a different path. For one, I do not think that Bellatrix Lestrange would be caught dead in what you are wearing."

"No," Harry agreed. "I'm sure my mother would be horrified if she could see me now."

"Well, _I_ think you look quite dapper. But, back to the topic at hand — the Lady Voldemort is not her real name, of course. She was born Martha Merope Riddle — an orphaned half-blood raised in a Muggle orphanage. In fact, during her first rise to power, she used this name to form a group called the Society for the Preservation of Wizarding Culture, claiming to be a Muggleborn. Make no mistake, they were not a group in support of Muggleborns — they were exceedingly polite about it, of course, but it was a way for Voldemort to spread her influence to the Ministry under a veneer of civility."

"I see," said Harry, thinking that he needed to read up on Voldemort's movements last time. He figured the difference came from the fact that Voldemort was female — perhaps the difference in gender meant that she had gone for something of a subtler approach, at least in terms of public perception.

"Now, as I am sure you have realized, the disappearance of Martha Riddle on the same night that Voldemort killed the Potters and subsequently failed to kill Harry Potter raised enough doubt in the eyes of certain individuals that the influence of her Society has been curtailed, but the fact remains that, if she wishes it, Voldemort has quite a bit of support among the Ministry."

"Ah. You think that she will use me as a way to politically attack you," Harry said.

Dumbledore's smile turned indulgent. "Not precisely — I think they will attack me regardless. Lucius Malfoy has enough influence over Cornelius Fudge that he will undoubtedly seek to make my life very difficult over the school year. Further, I am sure that Mr. Nott's Auror Department—"

"Wait," Harry interrupted. "There's a Death Eater in charge of the Aurors?"

"I believe that Mr. Thoros Nott does not have a Dark Mark, and thus, he is not technically a Death Eater. I think you'll find, however, that that does not mean he is not thoroughly Voldemort's creature. He was also one of the members of the Society who publicly decried the group after her fall — a number of them did, you see, claiming that they merely wanted to support a political agenda, not a terrorist group."

"I see," Harry admitted. "That's...unfortunate. I thought you said the Society was exposed, though."

"Unfortunately, while Voldemort's disappearance was evidence that the Society wasn't what they claimed to be, there was enough reasonable doubt that they were able to claim their innocence of the group's true intentions. In fact, there is enough obfuscation on the nature of Voldemort herself that certain parts of the Ministry, and indeed, the larger Wizarding World believes that she is a fabrication, or, perhaps, that she is an alias of your mother."

Harry nodded. This didn't bode well for the Ministry this time around — if Voldemort's influence was indeed that strong, they would not last nearly as long as he remembered. It also meant that Dumbledore's warning was no laughing matter, and that convincing them that Voldemort was indeed a threat would be twice as hard this time around.

Dumbledore continued, "Back to the issue at hand — If you take this post, I have very little doubt that you will find yourself under attack, from not just the Ministry itself, but also the Daily Prophet. Your parents are still very well-known for their crimes as Death Eaters, and, given your lack of history in Britain, it will be very easy to tar you with the same brush."

"Make no mistake, Mr. Dumbledore," Harry said. "I have faced far more great and terrible enemies than Rita Skeeter and Cornelius Fudge. The Ministry of Magic does not scare me." Inwardly, however, he found that he was significantly more worried about this possibility than he was letting on, however.

Dumbledore nodded, and said, "Then, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Hogwarts staff. May I call you Corvus?"

Harry felt himself smile. "Only if I can call you Albus."

"I would be _delighted_ if you were to call me Albus," Dumbledore said, with a beaming smile. "But! A few quick things — first, the contract. For this position, I have recently taken to handing out contracts only for a single year — let's not tempt fate, yes? If you still wish to return next year, we can renegotiate — I imagine that I will be overjoyed to offer you a pay raise if that happy occasion comes to pass."

He took one of the forms in his pile, and handed it over. Harry grimaced, and took out his reading glasses so her could scan it — it was roughly what he expected from Dumbledore, in that it was exceedingly fair. After two quick reads through, he picked up a particularly fine-looking hawk-feather quill that was resting on the desk and signed it ' _Corvus Lestrange_ ' The name was still unfamiliar, but now was as good a time as any to get used to it.

"Thank you," he said.

"No, Corvus, thank you!" Dumbledore replied. "Now, I can't, unfortunately, allow you to move into the Professor's quarters — our last Defense teacher is recovering from an illness, and he will probably be staying here at the castle for another week or so."

"That's perfectly fine. Do Hogwarts professors usually stay in the castle over the summer?"

"Oh, no," Dumbledore said. "In fact, we sent the students home only a few days ago, and most of them are gone already — Minerva was kind enough to stick around for this interview, but she was planning on leaving shortly. However, it is by no means required to leave during the summer, so if you have the desire, you may stay once your quarters are ready. Some of them pop in and out during the summers, but the majority do not. I myself have made the castle a permanent residence, so you would have to put up with an old man for company, but I promise not to impose on you too much." He punctuated that last statement with an exaggerated wink, the twinkle in his eyes on full bore.

"That's very generous of you," Harry said. "And I may take you up on it — there are many things I planned to accomplish this summer, so I cannot say that I will be here frequently or consistently, but it saves me the trouble of finding a permanent residence."

He would genuinely relish the opportunity to spend some time with Dumbledore, as one of his larger regrets was not getting to know the man better when he was alive. It was also probably as good a time as any to get out of the habit of sleeping in the wilderness, as he had been doing. That, at least, would be slow going — the years of living on the run had inured him against comfortable beds, although now that he was in the past, he might as well rejoin civilization.

Dumbledore stood up, and offered his hand. "Well, that sounds wonderful — I look forward to it. Other things — you'll need to submit a booklist by July fifteenth, and the first event you're required to attend is the Sorting Feast on the first of September. And, I will be happy to owl you when the Defense Professor's space is free. I would be surprised if it took longer than a week or two, however."

Harry smiled, and took it. "That sounds fine. Until then, Albus?"

"Until then, Corvus. I bid you good day."

Harry got up, placed his goblet on the desk, and left the office. He then rode the revolving staircase down to the hall, past the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Instead of retracing his steps with Professor McGonagall, he avoided the stairs, took a few turns down deserted corridors, passed a familiar suit of armor, and finally came to a stop in a corridor nearly on the other side of the castle.

At the end of the corridor, a man-sized vase sat, and along one wall, there was a large tapestry of a rather dull-looking man unsuccessfully trying to convince a number of trolls to dance. Every so often, one of the trolls would smack the man and he would stop, looking concussed for about half a minute or so before he shook himself off and started haranguing the trolls again.

Across the hallway from the tapestry stood a blank stone wall, and his destination.

Harry walked forward, pacing up and down the hall, thinking furiously about a place of hidden things — a place where someone could hide something precious, something valuable, in a place where no one would find it.

He paced back and forth, deep in contemplation about the hiding of things, until a door appeared in the blank stone wall. Harry stepped forward and wrenched it open, stepping into the familiar cathedral-sized room, filled with an entire city, complete with towering walls, comprised entirely of junk.

Harry allowed himself a smile now that he'd reached his destination. Of course, he still needed to find the thing, but he no longer needed to worry about a suspicious McGonagall catching him where he wasn't really supposed to be.

Harry methodically began to walk — he knew the Horcrux wasn't near the front, so he was more careful as he moved on — keeping a careful eye out for the acid-burned cabinet where he'd first hidden his Potions book.

Harry passed a menagerie of items — there was a surplus of broken furniture, and far too many books to count, as well as a number of discarded articles of clothing — cloaks, hats, robes, and a surprising number of loose socks. Rounding out the collection was a smattering of other objects, including a surprising number of weapons — mostly rusty swords, but there was also a gruesomely bloodstained axe and even an unexpectedly lifelike stuffed troll.

Harry spent what had to be nearly a half-hour walking among the maze-like piles of junk before he stumbled onto the cabinet he was looking for, cherry red except where the acid had discolored it.

Instead of looking inside the cabinet, however, he cast around for a bust of the old warlock that he knew would be next to the tarnished tiara that held part of the soul of Voldemort.

He spotted the bust of the ugly man, and it was just as bare as he'd first found it. Around it, he could see a few wigs and even a worn derby hat, but no tiara. As much as he might want to panic, he knew that it might just be out of place. He checked further, noting the cage which held a skeleton of a creature with five legs. He checked the inside of the cabinet but that was empty.

He cast around further, starting to panic now. A coat rack, filled with women's trench coats, identical except for the fact that they were each in different shades of pastel. An absolutely hideous lamp, with a shade encrusted with thick copper. A display case full of jewelry, most of it ruined beyond repair. A collection of eggshells that looked like they came from a dragon.

But no tiara.

Where? Could it be somewhere else? Did he have time to sort through this junk? Not today, at least. But could he risk leaving the Horcrux any later than he already had? He already had to face the very real possibility that he had miscalculated, and Voldemort had ordered Draco to retrieve it already, and it was now hidden so thoroughly and completely that he would only get the location from Voldemort herself.

But there was one thing he could do — " _Accio Diadem_!"

He waited a few seconds, but nothing happened. He tried again.

" _Accio Ravenclaw's Diadem_!"

Still nothing.

" _Accio_ _Horcrux_!"

Harry sighed, and realized that today, he had to accept defeat, no matter how little he liked that idea. He needed to get out of the castle — checking his pocketwatch, he realized that it had been forty-five minutes since he'd left Dumbledore's office. It had been far too long to come up with a believable excuse if he were to be caught now, and he needed to re-think his approach to this Horcrux. He carefully replaced the watch and began to pick his way back through the debris, thinking hard.

There were two major possibilities — one, Voldemort had already gotten the Diadem away from the Room. Although definitively the worse possibility, there was nothing he could do about it now, and it was better to focus his energies elsewhere — namely, on the locket.

Two, Voldemort hadn't hidden the Diadem in the Room of Requirement at all — she had already shown herself to be different enough from her male incarnation that it wasn't totally out of the question.

So, really, the most reasonable course of action he could see was to attempt to search the castle for alternate hiding places that a female Voldemort might use — it was good thing he would be spending a great deal of time here in the future, then.

Frustrated, Harry reached the entrance to the Room of Requirement. He slipped out, and, in the interest of avoiding Dumbledore's scrutiny, he found the closest window, and a second later, a crow was winging its way out towards the forest.

* * *

Unlike their more grandiose peers in the Malfoys, or the centrally-located Blacks, the Notts lived in a large hunting lodge, probably more accurately called a chalet, set in the middle of a thick forest, a few miles outside of Mould-On-The-Wold. It was a large building, set on a ridge with a picturesque view of the valley below, and made of a particularly fine bit of oak a few centuries earlier. Most people would give a great deal to own a house like that.

The idyllic scene, however, was marred by the enormous green snake-and-skull that hovered above it, a beacon in the dark night.

Gawain Robards stepped out of his Apparition, pausing for a second so his partner could join him, falling into step out of thin air.

"That's the third one this week," he commented dryly.

His partner sneered. "How much you wanna bet there's nothing here either? Someone is making fun of us, Robards. Us _and_ the Dark Lady."

"You keep saying things like that, and I can't help but wonder if they've got a point," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Thorfinn Rowle asked, his large blond face twisted in confusion.

"I was just thinking that this might be different — Nott is Head Auror, after all."

Rowle just grunted. They started up the long drive, walking slowly. A crow's call echoed, and they could hear the sound of wingbeats against the quiet night.

Robards sighed. "Let's just get this over with. Who am I kidding? Five galleons says nobody here saw anything, like the last two cases."

"That's a sucker's bet, that is."

* * *

Harry Potter — not the one who was currently using the name Corvus Lestrange — slouched out of the house, wanting nothing more than to get away from Number Four, Privet Drive for a few blessedly silent hours. Away from Uncle Vernon's grinding teeth and Aunt Petunia's scathing questions. Harry didn't know where Dudley was, either, but he figured that walking around was better than staring at the mind-numbing off-white of his walls. It wasn't like he was afraid of his cousin, even if he did happen across Dudley's little gang.

His feet trod the hot asphalt that crisscrossed Little Whinging — he wasn't heading anywhere in particular, simply putting distance between himself and the house.

It was frustrating, to know that Voldemort had returned, and that she walked the earth once again, and to see her in all her terrifying glory...only to end up back at the Dursleys, just like last summer, as if nothing had happened. It seemed as if the two worlds couldn't possibly coexist — the nightmarish reality of the graveyard didn't quite seem real when faced with the stark, repetitive suburbia of Privet Drive.

It almost made him imagine he'd dreamed the entire thing.

Of course, he might not be so concerned if it hadn't been so dream-like — a strange woman that no one recognized appeared out of nowhere to duel Voldemort in a suitably dramatic fashion. Strange women didn't often pop out of the woodwork to duel Dark Ladies in Little Whinging — there was one over there on the swingset, of course, but — but wait a minute.

Harry looked closer, and sitting there, swinging idly, bold as brass, was a pale woman with dark, unruly hair. She looked familiar — he was quite certain it was the same woman from the graveyard, if considerably cleaner. Before he knew it, he was walking briskly, almost running, across the street to the small park.

"You," he said, once he was within speaking distance.

"Me?" she asked, looking up. Now that he could see her up close, he was less sure he recognized her. She was dressed similarly, but her eyes looked darker, sleepier, and her face thinner, and he could no longer see her resemblance to his mother. In fact, she looked a little familiar in a different way, but one he couldn't quite place.

"You?" he repeated, rather dumbly. "It is you, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Hello again, Harry Potter."

"But — you look different? That's not just me, right?"

"No, it's not. It's — well, let's just say that this is how I actually look, and it would have been inconvenient for Voldemort to recognize me," she said, eyeing him carefully. Then she smiled a little, and patted the swing next to her.

Harry plopped down and and curled one hand around the chain. Up close, he noted that her eyes were still green, but a much darker shade.

"What do you mean, recognize you?" he asked. "You don't — y'know — know her, or something, do you?"

"No," she said. "That was our first meeting. But — Harry," she seemed to be bracing him for something. "Do I look familiar?"

Clearly he was supposed to recognize her, but —

"No. I mean, you look familiar, but if I'm supposed to know who you are, I haven't got a clue."

She looked away from him, head pointed forward on the swingset, and sighed. "That's something, at least," she said, almost to herself. But then she straightened, and looked back at him. "But to answer your question, Harry, Voldemort knows my mother quite well. I'm sure she would see the resemblance. And let's just say that Voldemort not knowing who I am right now only helps us."

Harry frowned. "You mean she'd come and find you if she knew who you were?"

"No, Harry," she said. "I don't live with my mother — I haven't seen her in over a decade. It's not that. It's simpler: people fear what they don't understand. As long as I'm an unkown, she fears me. Once she figures out who I am, my mystique is ruined, and I'm less of a threat."

"Come off it." And if he felt slightly relieved that she was estranged, he didn't let it show. She had already reminded him of Sirius, but the resemblance was stronger now he thought about it. He wasn't terribly pleased with Sirius at the moment, mostly because his godfather's letters had been full of frustratingly vague hints and warnings about keeping his head down. Not that his friends' were better — the only thing Ron's and Hermione's correspondence did nowadays was frustrate him about how completely unhelpful and uninformative about what they were up to together — doubtlessly having fun at the Burrow without him.

"I'm serious, Harry. You'd be surprised how easily it is to defeat people when they're scared of you. It's Voldemort's favorite tactic, you know."

Harry wasn't sure how much he bought this line of thinking, but he didn't exactly have a rebuttal, either, so he just opted for, "You still haven't told me who you are, by the way." He had an idea who she was now, but he wanted to hear her admit it.

"Corvus Lestrange, at your service," she said with a small bow of her head. Harry started in surprise — he hadn't expected her to fess up to it, although he realized now that was where he had seen those heavy-lidded eyes before — Dumbledore's Pensieve. The Lestranges were the people that attacked Neville's parents.

"I see you've heard of my family, then." She sounded amused. "Everyone but me is in Azkaban. Not that they don't deserve to be, of course."

"But — they're your parents, right?"

She nodded.

"How — how?" he managed in a strangled voice.

"How am I related to them?" she asked.

"No — more, 'how are you so casual about it?'"

"Well, they didn't raise me — I didn't see them much, growing up. And they went to Azkaban shortly after I started school. I can't say that we really were ever all that close, honestly." She dropped her gaze. "And I've dealt with it all my life — people decide they know who I am from the name alone and nothing else. You either let it swallow you, or you learn to let it wash off your back."

Harry wasn't sure how much he bought that. It sounded a bit like something Sirius would say. "That might work for you, but I'm Harry Potter. It's different."

"You think just because you're more famous than me that I couldn't possibly understand you?" Her eyes were hard and her tone was mocking as she continued, "Well, aren't you special, Harry Potter. Because there's no way anyone could go through anything even remotely similar to you. You've suffered that much more, have you?"

Harry just gaped at her, reddening.

"But!" she said, all of her previous humor returning in an instant. "We didn't come here to talk about our families, did we?"

"We didn't?" he asked, wary.

"No, of course not." Her dark green eyes regarded him coolly. "I came to offer you an explanation for the graveyard, but I'm not sure how many questions you really have."

Harry had thought a lot about that, and he knew the one thing he was most curious about from that night in the graveyard. "That ring. The one that Voldemort was surprised you had, that you said was hers. What's so important about it? I've never seen her that angry."

"That's a very good question. To answer it, I'm going to be frustrating, and ask you a question of my own. I will explain, but this is important. So, Harry, what scares Lady Voldemort more than anything else?"

Harry considered the question. He'd met Voldemort — or some incarnation of her — three times, and he knew what she valued above all else — power. But what made her frightened? Sixteen-year-old Martha Riddle hadn't seemed afraid of anything. But, in every incarnation, Voldemort had wanted power, recognition, and, perhaps most of all, she'd wanted to be acknowledged as the greatest sorceress in the world.

"She's afraid of dying," said Harry. "She's afraid of being insignificant, of being forgotten."

"Yes — and no. She's afraid of death for its own sake — she's always been after immortality. She would take being forgotten over being dead. If she is forgotten, and still alive, she can always come back. To Voldemort, death is the most frightening thing in the world."

"So what does that have to do with a ring?"

"I'm getting to that. Y'see, Voldemort fears death more than anything — and thus, she sought a way to tie her soul to life, in case her body was destroyed. A way to ensure she could come back — if she were to create an item that would store a part of her soul — she could survive something like a Killing Curse backfiring."

Harry's mouth was dry. "You mean — that ring — it's got a part of Voldemort's soul?"

Lestrange's eyes glittered. "Exactly."

"So — let me get this straight — Voldemort put part of her soul into a ring and that's why she can't die?"

"Why, yes. And she hid it, you see, so she was understandably a bit surprised when I turned up wearing it."

Harry let out a strangled laugh. "But wouldn't it be best not to let her know? I mean, you can't have found it at the corner store."

"Ahh, but that's the thing — it's the most pressing thing in the world to her — far more important than taking over the Ministry or gathering power or any of that rubbish. All she's been doing is looking for me."

"But — the _Prophet_ said that someone's been setting Dark Marks."

And then she _laughed_. "Oh, yes. The thing is — I've been wanting a rematch, but she's done such a fine job of hiding herself and her followers that nearly all the ones that I would have liked to pick fights with are in Azkaban. The others are all entirely too reputable to fall for my tricks, or I haven't been able to track them down. If I could find a marked Death Eater to duel, I totally would have done that. But I haven't — it's almost depressing what I would do to meet some good old-fashioned Dark wizards in a dark alley at this point. So I've been — well — stirring the pot a bit."

Harry gaped at her. "Are you trying to make her want to kill you?"

"Of course I am, Harry! If she's trying to kill me, she's not doing anything productive, is she?"

"I don't think most people would _want_ Voldemort trying to kill them."

Her eyes, so full of mirth, sobered instantly. When she next spoke, her voice was slightly sharp. "Well, if she's trying to do me in, she hasn't got much time for you, does she?"

"Oh," Harry said, feeling a bit chastised. "But I mean, honestly, it's not like she's got a yearly quota or anything."

Lestrange snorted. "Any other questions?"

"You saved Cedric — thank you," he said.

She beamed at him. "It was my pleasure. Now, it's my turn to ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I was planning on a little project this summer, and, well, I figured you wouldn't be terribly happy here with your relatives, so I wondered if you'd like to join me — a few days a week, I think."

"What kind of project?" Harry asked warily.

"You'll see. I could tell you, but I think it would be more exciting to show you."

She jumped up a bit abruptly and offered him a hand.

Harry looked at it, and then at her, and said, "Why — why me? It's not that I doubt you, after you saved my life, it's just — well, why would you go out of your way to spend time with me this summer?" ' _When no one else will_ ,' was left unsaid.

She put her hand down, rather awkwardly, and looked at him. "I suppose it can't be helped," she sighed. "My parents — I didn't see them much. I was raised by some of their relatives, but we didn't get along. So I know what it's like to spend a summer alone — the one after my parents went to Azkaban, I felt like no one understood me, either." She shot a meaningful look at him.

But Harry was frowning, because something had just occurred to him. "But how do you know all this? It's all rather convenient, isn't it? You show up out of nowhere and just happen to know all of these things."

"Harry."

When he looked up, Lestrange was staring at him levelly. Her eyes were full of fire, and he could see the barely restrained violence simmering behind the heavy lids.

"Do you really think that if I meant to kill you or kidnap you, I wouldn't have done it already?"

Harry paled, but had to admit she had a point.

She continued, "My secrets, at least in this, are my own. Now, are you coming, or not? Final offer." She pulled out a battered golden pocketwatch and checked it. "We're late as it is."

Harry frowned. He didn't like being browbeaten, and he didn't like it when people kept stuff from him — he'd seen Voldemort, and he'd fought her, and he didn't feel like Corvus Lestrange was telling him the whole truth. He wasn't feeling particularly charitable towards that kind of behavior, either — Ron's, Hermione's, and Sirius' vagueness wasn't helping much in that department.

But at the same time, hadn't he been spending all summer wishing that _someone_ would show up to tell him _something_? And the alternative was to spend an afternoon sitting alone on the swingset, like he had spent the last two weeks.

And so Harry pushed down that hot irritation, and said, "Sure."

"Good. Your education begins today, then."

Lestrange offered him her hand, and he took it, and she turned on her heel —

— and then the world suddenly went dark, and he felt pressure on all sides, like a great big black mass was pressing down all around him, tightening around his chest, pushing down his eyes —

— and then he was standing in the clear summer air, gasping for breath. Beside him, Lestrange looked concerned.

"It's your first time Apparating, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes," he gasped out.

"You'll get used to it," she said. "It's not my favorite either. But Apparition is dead useful."

"Never," Harry vehemently denied. They were standing in front of a used car lot, of all things. A large neon sign above them read "Parker's Used Cars."

Lestrange gave him a warning look, and said, "I trust I don't need to remind you to act like a Muggle?"

Harry shook his head.

"Good. Now, come on." She strode forward, and he followed, still marveling at how little he'd expected to come to a place like this and how comfortable the pure-blooded woman in front of him appeared to be.

Lestrange led him forward into a small, dingy office, where a thin, olive-skinned man wearing a shabby three-piece suit was sitting behind a desk. He smelled strongly of aftershave and had enormous purple shadows under his eyes, as if he was wearing copious amounts of makeup.

He stood up. "Can I help you?" He asked.

"Yes. I called earlier about a Bonneville T140?"

The man's dark eyes widened a bit. "Ah, yes. Of course." He stood up, and offered his hand. "Arnold Parker, at your service, Miss…?"

"Corvus Lestrange," she answered, taking it. "And this is my cousin Harry."

 _Cousin?_ he mouthed at her as Mr. Parker laughed, and said, "That's quite a name."

Lestrange winked at Harry, before she smiled as well, and demurred, "Family tradition."

"I understand. It's very nice," Mr. Parker said, and he gestured for them to follow. She just snorted, and trudged out after him.

As Harry brought up the rear, he whispered, "Cousin?"

Without turning around, Lestrange replied quietly, "Well, we're probably related _somehow_. And it was the easiest explanation."

They walked out of the dingy shack, and the salesman brought them to a red motorbike. He then embarked on a long-winded sales pitch about the original owner, who was a young man who rarely used it. He made sure to mention multiple times how nice of a bike it was, and what a great deal he was offering. Harry wasn't really listening, and instead he concentrated on what Lestrange was doing.

She was inspecting the bike very carefully, but Harry didn't know enough about motorcycles to be able to tell anything significant about it. It looked fine, if a bit old, but his companion was frowning. Harry watched as she inspected every inch — the tires, the casing, the engine, the handlebar.

Then, she cut off Mr. Parker as he was rambling about how smooth the ride was. "The VINs are different on the engine and the frame. Why?"

"Er...well, the first engine died, so the original owner had to replace it with another part, he was a bit of a collector, you see…"

She turned to Harry, and asked, "Is he lying?"

"Come again?" Harry asked, confused.

"Is Parker here—" she gestured to the salesman, "—lying about why the VINs are different?"

Harry frowned, and glanced over at him. The man looked beyond confused, glancing between them, obviously not sure what to make of the exchange. He'd never mentioned anything about the first owner's other bikes, but it would fit with the fact that he hadn't used it much, so he wasn't sure.

"Umm...yes?"

"Are you asking me, or telling me, Potter?" she asked.

"I'm telling," he said, still not totally sure.

"Liar," she accused, eyes glinting with amusement. "But we'll work on that." Then, she turned to Mr. Parker, and her demeanor shifted abruptly, from casual and joking to sinister and predatory. Harry could see one hand in her pocket, likely grasping a wand. Her next words were conversational, utterly calm, and yet somehow full of dark promise. "But he's correct. I don't want to buy this bike. Lie to me like that again, and I'll make you regret it. Now, do you have anything similar, from the same time frame?"

"Well, if you're sure," Mr. Parker said, clearly very wrong-footed. Harry thought he might not think she was serious. He wasn't so sure.

"I am."

"Is price at all an issue?"

"No," Lestrange said immediately. "Because you'll give it to me at the price you offered this one."

"Well, I've got a Vincent Black Shadow, but it's quite a bit more valuable. Only 1700 of them were made, you see — I'm not sure I can give it you that cheap."

Her eyes narrowed, and she asked, "Do you really want to test me, little man?"

"No — no ma'am."

"Good," her tone was perfectly pleasant again. "Show me." He took them down the row.

While they were walking, she whispered to Harry, "Keep an eye on what he says — I'll want to know if he lies to me again."

And then she was striding up after the salesman, and Harry was hurrying to keep up.

Mr. Parker showed them a new motorcycle, but this one was black — even the parts that were metal. Harry was very impressed by this, but Lestrange seemed unmoved. Mr. Parker didn't offer any stories about this bike, however. He seemed cowed by the woman, now, instead of fawning over her like he had been.

Harry didn't blame him, although he wasn't quite so sure he wanted to spend the summer with her anymore — not that he had been terribly sure of that in the first place. It was then he realized that as grateful as he was that she was on his side, he wasn't sure how much he liked Corvus Lestrange. It was hard to shake the feeling that she wasn't somehow looking for a fight, and every moment, he felt like if he said the wrong thing, she would use it as an excuse to start one.

Lestrange did another inspection — this one, however, she was more thorough. She checked the inside of the frame, running her fingers along the details of the motorcycle, muttering under her breath.

After a few minutes, she straightened up and asked, "Can you start it?"

Mr. Parker was quick to comply. "Of course, miss."

He handed over the key, and Lestrange turned it, before she fiddled something on the side, kicking it once or twice, and the bike sputtered to life.

She looked at Harry, and asked, "What do you think, Harry?"

"It's a motorcycle," he said. "I don't know anything about motorcycles. The black is nice, at least?"

Lestrange giggled at that. Then, she reached over and turned it off. The engine's noise faded.

"We'll take it," she told Mr. Parker with a beaming smile, producing a wad of cash from her pocket.

Fifteen minutes later, he'd presented her with the keys, and they were driving away from the dealership, her in front, and him holding on for dear life. It was exhilarating, particularly considering that she seemed to like speed just as much as he did. Over her shoulder, she caught his eye, her own full of delight. "So, Harry, do you know anything about enchanting motorbikes to fly?"


	4. Courting Allies

I don't own _Harry Potter_.

* * *

 **Chapter 4  
Courting Allies**

Harry tumbled out into the cool darkness of the Atrium, landing awkwardly and skidding across the floor. He'd never gotten used to Floo travel, and this was sadly not an uncommon method of arrival for him.

He got to his feet as quickly and with as much dignity as he could possibly muster, brushed himself off, and began to walk towards the reception desk. So much for a quiet entrance.

Harry studiously ignored everyone around him as he walked, the casual snickering at his entrance giving way to furtive looks at least one gasp as he passed. Harry had anticipated this — it appeared that people still remembered Bellatrix Lestrange. From what he had gleaned skimming through Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts — even if those selections reminded him uncomfortably of the bossy, bushy-haired girl coming into his compartment all those years ago — she had been the one person that Wizarding Britain had blamed as the ringleader of the Death Eaters.

He had expected this reaction — in fact, he was hoping for a bit of infamy, so that his identity was well-known enough by the time Bellatrix was out of Azkaban that when she inevitably refused to acknowledge him, everyone believed that it was because he was a blood-traitor, and not actually pretending to be someone he was not.

As he passed the statue in the fountain in the middle of the Atrium, he couldn't help the sneer that twisted his lips. It was a horrid lie — on the surface, it told a story of how wizards stood above the other magical races, and yet, it failed to acknowledge that they had gotten to the top by trodding on everyone else.

A short man in a violet top hat and carrying a walking stick accosted him as he passed the fountain. Harry recognized this man — he was Dedalus Diggle, and he had once bowed to Harry as a young child, before he'd known anything about magic. Now, however, he wasn't bowing.

"You!" Diggle snarled at him.

"Me?" Harry asked.

"You! You're — Bellatrix Lestrange! Escaped!" he snarled, pointing at Harry dramatically with his stick. His top hat tumbled to the floor in the excitement.

Harry purposefully didn't react. "I think you have me mistaken for someone else."

"But — you're—"

"I'm not," Harry said warningly. As much as he wanted to distance himself from the Lestrange's reputation, he could see the appeal of sneering at the man, or hexing him and walking past.

Diggle's mouth flapped uselessly a few times, and then he looked more closely at Harry. "You're not her," he agreed, sounding like he didn't quite believe what he was saying.

"No, I'm not," Harry repeated, "And I'm afraid you're being quite rude, and I am in a hurry. Now, if you don't move, I shall have to move you."

Diggle just nodded dumbly, still mouthing to himself as Harry walked by.

He approached the desk that held the bored-looking, badly shaven wizard, who put down his Daily Prophet and eyed Harry.

Harry eyed him right back.

"Step over here," he said unenthusiastically.

Harry obeyed. He submitted to the inspection by the strange golden instrument, and he surrendered his wand when prompted. The man took it, and laid it on his funny brass scales.

"Eleven inches, with a phoenix-feather core?" the man asked.

"Yes."

The man took his bit of parchment, and offered Harry's wand back, eyeing his face carefully. Harry walked away before he could ask any questions, and found a lift that was currently empty.

The lift descended, and on level five, Harry was joined by a man with an obvious toupee and pale yellow robes.

Harry nodded at him, and he nodded back. They rode the lift in silence, until the man with a toupee got out on the fourth floor, and three more people joined him, as well as a cluster of pair airplane memos.

They traded a pale-haired witch for a watery-eyed wizard on the third, and then everyone but Harry got off on the second, leaving him to ride the lift down to level one alone with a little cloud of memos above his head.

Stepping out of the lift, Harry followed his raincloud of lavender airplanes down a handsome hall furnished in dark wood to the office of the Minister for Magic.

A young, blonde, attractive secretary sat outside Fudge's office, wearing bronze robes that looked expensive. A storm of pale lavender paper airplanes positively cloaked her, as she read incoming messages with one hand, sometimes sending them back into the air, sometimes discarding them. Her other hand managed to both pen and fold new messages with prodigious speed, and probably not a little bit of magical assistance. Somehow, she managed to look vaguely bored the entire time — as if she found something that very likely should take four people somewhat tedious instead of challenging.

Harry marched right up to her, and announced, "I have an appointment with the Minister."

The woman's expression didn't change. "Yes, Miss — you are...Corvus Lestrange?"

"I am."

"Good," the secretary said with a smile. "Go right in, they're expecting you."

"Thank you," Harry replied, and did just that, opening up the impressive gold-inlaid doors and stepping into the office behind.

Fudge was not behind his desk — instead, he was standing, absently twirling his lime-green bowler hat in the center of the room next to a tall, white-haired man with a very long beard and lurid robes in a yellow so bright Harry could have sworn they were neon. Next to them stood a squat, toadlike witch with a hideous pale pink cardigan, and an even worse pink bow in her hair. Two Aurors stood in the corners of the room, one of whom Harry recognized as Kingsley Shacklebolt, tall and broad-shouldered as ever.

Dumbledore looked up as Harry walked in, and said, "Ahh, Corvus. Very nice to see you. This is the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, and his Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge. Minister Fudge, Madam Umbridge, meet Hogwarts' newest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Corvus Lestrange."

"Mr. Fudge, Madam Umbridge," Harry greeted.

"A pleasure, I'm sure," said Fudge, though he didn't sound like he meant it. Umbridge didn't greet him, and instead just shot him a dirty look. Harry was pretty sure he knew why, so he just ignored it and smiled blandly back.

Dumbledore then spoke up again, "I asked Miss Lestrange to come here today because she was also present in the graveyard of Little Hangleton during the evening of June the twenty-fourth, and, as such, can testify to the events that transpired that night."

"Hem, hem," Umbridge coughed that funny little cough of hers, and Harry was struck with a surge of loathing for the woman. He'd been half-hoping that she wasn't nearly as terrible as he remembered, but now he was certain that he wasn't going to like what she was going to say.

She continued, "It's just that — Miss…Lestrange, was it? I don't mean to be rude, but the ministry has no record of anyone named Corvus Lestrange existing, so I can't help but wonder why we don't know who you are."

Harry snorted. "Why would you expect to have heard of me, Madam Umbridge? This is the first time I have ever been in Britain, and I've been here for less than a month."

Umbridge was not deterred. "And yet, we can't be certain that you're trustworthy, can we? Tell me, you are related to the Lestranges we have currently serving life sentences in Azkaban, are you not?"

Harry was reminded just how very unpleasant this woman was. Life was simpler before he traveled back in time, when he could curse people he didn't like and didn't have to try to reason with them — not that Umbridge would listen to reason. Logic seemed to bounce off of her like she was permanently enchanted with an Imperturbable Charm that repelled rational thinking.

Dumbledore, however, interjected, "I don't see how who Ms. Lestrange may or not be related to pertains to this conversation, Dolores. We are here, after all, to discuss the return of the Dark witch named Voldemort, and she is here to testify that she saw her return. You refused to believe it solely based on the word of Harry Potter. And so, I have found you another person who was there that night. Please, at least give her the courtesy of questioning her before you decide that her story is false."

Fudge purpled at these words. Harry just rolled his eyes.

"Fine, then, Dumbledore! Ms. Lestrange! Are you going to feed me the same cock-and-bull story about You-Know-Who in a graveyard, resurrected by Pettigrew of all people?"

Harry wasn't going to play this game, however. "I don't know you, Mr. Fudge. And I don't know very much about what it means to be Minister for Magic, but do you mean to tell me that you aren't even interested in hearing about a possible threat to your country?"

The Minister did a fine impression of a cat dethroned from his favorite chair. "Of course not! But you can't honestly expect me to take the word of an obviously unstable boy like Harry Potter, or a lunatic escapee from Azkaban. You-Know-Who was a myth, created by Bellatrix Lestrange — that woman is your mother, it's obvious — to scare the public."

This time, Harry couldn't help the derisive sneer. "Listen to yourself, you stupid little man. Are you really this short-sighted—"

"Corvus," Dumbledore said, cutting him off even if his tone was quiet and measured. "That is enough. Cornelius, I cannot force you to accept the truth. You are sure that you do not wish to hear what Ms. Lestrange has to say?"

"I don't care if you've found another sycophant to echo Potter's lies, Dumbledore! I told you before, I won't have it — if I told people that You-Know-Who was back — that she was about to pounce out of the shadows and make people disappear — I would be laughed out of office!"

Harry very purposefully kept his mouth shut, firmly clasped his hands together to prevent himself from reaching for his wand, and settled for glowering at Fudge.

"Then, I see no reason to attempt to convince you any further." He turned to Harry. "Shall we depart, then?"

Harry nodded stiffly, not daring to say another word, because Aurors generally tended to take death threats seriously, and he would hate to have to hurt Kingsley. He turned and walked out of the office, not stopping until he had almost reached the lift.

Dumbledore joined him a moment later. "I did warn you that attempting to convince Cornelius Fudge would be an uphill battle. However, I was surprised that he refused to even listen."

Harry eyed Dumbledore skeptically.

Dumbledore chuckled, and said, "The truth can be a terrible and frightening thing."

Harry couldn't help the surge of fondness for his old Headmaster's little nuggets of wisdom. "I suppose you're right. I didn't expect Fudge to take me seriously, and that Umbridge woman is a real piece of work. But what makes me truly angry is the fact that this means she outmaneuvered me again."

Dumbledore asked, "You're referring to Voldemort?"

Harry nodded. "I wanted to provoke her into attempting to silence me by spreading the news of her return. But with Fudge that set on ignoring her, she's got no reason to act. Attacking me would only strengthen my case. It's too obvious, too crude."

Dumbledore made a noise of agreement. "So what's your plan next?"

Harry grinned a savage grin. "Well, since I've been unable to make her come to me, I suppose I'll have to find her."

And then Dumbledore scrutinized Harry with that penetrating look, as if he could see into a person and discern the essential parts of their character by simply observing closely enough.

"You're truly willing to take her on yourself, then."

Harry cocked his head, surprised. "I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Dumbledore smiled again, and said, "You continue to be full of pleasant surprises. I've helped organize something of a group that works collectively to oppose Voldemort. Would you be interested in something like that?"

"I think I might," Harry admitted.

* * *

A few hours later, Harry found himself standing next to Dumbledore on an overgrown patch of grass in the center of London. All around him, dark houses loomed, filled with refuse and spotted with broken windows.

Down near the end of the lane, a pack of rangy teenagers circled, the little lights of their cigarette butts glowing like light reflecting off the eyes of some savage animal.

Next to him, the familiar Put-Outer flared, and the nearest streetlamp went dark.

Dumbledore said calmly, "Read this." He handed Harry a familiar scrap of parchment. Harry reached out and took it, and held it out away from his face, squinting to read the narrow writing in the half-light. It said:

The Headquarters of the Order of the Greyhound may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

"Greyhound?" Harry asked.

"Yes. I think the man who originally came up with the name was rather fond of them — he raised them as a boy, if I recall correctly," Dumbledore said fondly.

"I see," Harry replied, still very confused by the name change. Did that mean that Dumbledore hadn't founded this Order? It seemed unlikely, seeing as he apparently was still the Secret-Keeper for headquarters and had the ability to invite people to join them. If he wasn't in charge, they at least trusted him quite a bit.

He was also starting to doubt whether the only difference between this world and the one he'd come from was Voldemort's gender.

As he handed the slip back to Dumbledore, he caught sight of the house rising up between Numbers Eleven and Thirteen, all tarnished opulence and dingy finery. Grimmauld Place held a number of memories for him, most of them bad, but he was genuinely happy to be here again.

"Come on, then. We don't want to be late," Dumbledore said, and they started forward. "Just — be careful in the hall. There's a portrait of your great-aunt Walburga there, and she is, unfortunately, just as unpleasant in death as she was in life."

Harry laughed. "I've never met her," he said. "I've not met very much of my mother's family — not that there are apparently very many of them left, as far as I understand."

"Well, then you are in luck tonight," Dumbledore said, but he didn't elaborate any more. They stepped up worn stone steps to the door, and Dumbledore rapped three times on the twisted silver knocker in the shape of a serpent.

They stood outside the door, waiting, for a few minutes before a complicated series of clicks sounded, and the door creaked open.

On the other side, a man stood, dressed in a tattered, worn coat, with a face as tired as his clothes. A face full of scars was topped by a head full of thin, prematurely gray hair, and piercing amber eyes that looked as if they belonged to a much older man.

Remus Lupin smiled, and said, "Dumbledore! We weren't sure whether to expect you tonight."

"Good evening, Remus. I do hope it's not an imposition that I was unexpectedly able to attend, or that I brought a friend."

Lupin's eyes roved over to Harry, and his smile looked a bit strained.

But he was perfectly polite when he answered, "Of course not. The more the merrier, I think."

"Excellent," Dumbledore said.

Lupin then held his hand out to Harry. "Remus Lupin. It's a pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Dumbledore's is a friend of mine."

Harry took it, and smiled back. "Corvus Lestrange," he said. He was genuinely glad to see Lupin, and not merely because he knew that Lupin didn't care about last names.

"Well, come in, then, the meeting's about to start," Lupin said, and he ushered them into the dark hall.

A familiar musty scent hit Harry's nose, and the chill inside the house was a welcome change to the oppressive heat outside, only slightly dulled by the dusk that was setting in. The hall was just as he remembered, full of dark portraits, peeling wallpaper, and a gloomy, cobwebbed chandelier.

Lupin led the way down the hall to the door that led to the kitchens, and as they passed the staircase, Harry saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye at the top of the steps. He stopped, and had his wand out of his hand before he realized that it must have been a glimpse of one of the Weasleys.

He turned to his companions, quickly pocketing his wand — Dumbledore seemed to be pointedly examining a particularly moth-eaten bit of rug, while Lupin was looking at him curiously.

Harry said, "I just thought — well, I did see someone. Bit jumpy, I suppose."

"No worries," Lupin said encouragingly. "We don't allow children to join the order, so naturally they spend a lot of their time observing its goings-ons."

Harry just smiled back. He remembered being on the other end of the situation, and didn't blame them in the slightest.

"Shall we?" he offered.

Lupin nodded, and they proceeded through the hall and down the cool stone steps to another door, complete with another serpent-shaped door handle.

The room beyond was cavernous, and filled mostly by a long table that was surrounded by a forest of chairs. Most of them were filled with people, the majority of whom were in conversation, and the surplus of great iron pots hung up on racks gave the room an even more crowded feeling.

The people in the chairs turned to look when they entered, and Harry recognized a great deal of them — Arthur and Molly Weasley, with their eldest son Bill, a blue-haired Tonks, the grizzled Alastor Moody, a very surprised Dedalus Diggle, white-haired Elphias Doge, pink-cheeked Hestia Jones and her thin friend Emmeline Vance, disheveled Mundungus Fletcher, brooding Severus Snape, and, last but not least, a very unkempt Sirius Black.

Dumbledore waved jovially to everyone, and most everyone waved back, even as they eyed Harry warily. He couldn't help grinning ferally in response, pleased at the way it made Diggle drop his hat again.

They found seats near the end of the table, and Dumbledore seemed completely unperturbed by the amount of attention they were garnering. Harry found himself between the Headmaster and Lupin, wondering whether that was purposeful or not.

Harry didn't have very long to wait, however, before a man stood up near the head of the table and called the meeting to attention. He was tall, and had long curly brown hair and a wide forehead, with a thin goatee.

"I think we ought to start now that everyone's here," he said. "To the first order of business — I believe Dumbledore has brought a new member?"

Dumbledore stood, pulling Harry up along with him with a surprisingly strong hand, and said, "Thank you, Edgar. I would like to introduce Hogwarts' newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Corvus Lestrange. I have found her to be a delightful young woman, and I think she will be a valuable ally in our fight against Voldemort and her supporters."

Harry wanted to sit down after this statement, but Dumbledore's arm held him firm.

Moody grunted, "How do we know we can trust her?"

Harry figured it would be best to field this one. "Have you noticed a trend in Voldemort's activities? Perhaps she's acting somewhat unusually since she's returned?" A few people flinched when he said the name, but Harry ignored them.

It was the man, Edgar, that answered. "We have noted that she's spent a fair bit of time looking for someone."

"That someone would be me," Harry answered. "She doesn't take being bested well. And I won't claim that I won by skill alone, but the fact remains that she was the one that fled from our first confrontation." The Order as a whole began to look at him with new eyes after that.

"Still could be a trick," Moody said. "A con to get close to us."

"I trust Miss Lestrange," Dumbledore put in, "and while I don't expect all of you to take me at my word unconditionally, I had hoped that you would be willing to give her the benefit of the doubt."

Harry shot Dumbledore a grateful look. "Thank you, Albus. But it's not like I didn't expect this," he said as he fixed Moody with a level gaze, then looked around the room. It appeared that distrust was a sentiment not entirely exclusive to the scarred ex-Auror. "So you want to know why a Lestrange would fight against Voldemort, right? You want to know why I'm not out there worshipping at her feet like all the other Lestranges? I was twelve when the Dark Lady was vanquished by Harry Potter, and my parents decided to assault a pair of Aurors in their home, which landed them in Azkaban.

"You know who my parents are, what they did — but have you ever wondered what it would be like to be their child? To know that you parents chose a Dark Lady over their own daughter? I don't support Voldemort because I've seen exactly what happens to her followers — she's the reason I haven't seen my parents in over a decade. She's out for herself — people are tools to her, mark my words — the only one who will benefit from Voldemort taking over is Voldemort," he finished, and then sat down. Dumbledore followed. When Harry looked up around the room again, Moody was still sneering, but he saw a fair bit of approval on the faces looking back at him, even if some of them looked a bit pale that he would use the name so much.

Edgar cleared his throat in the ringing silence, and said, "Well, then. Welcome, Lestrange, to the Order of the Greyhound. My name's Edgar Bones — my father originally founded the Order. I'm sure we'll be glad to have you. First thing's first — what's You-Know-Who up to?"

* * *

As the meeting ended, Harry sighed. He'd known pretty much everything they'd talked about, and as such hadn't paid much attention. The only things of note that happened were him agreeing to guard duty of both the Prophecy and the younger Harry, once a fortnight each, as well as learning that the Auror department had assigned two Aurors — Rowle and Robards — to the case of the mysterious appearing Dark Marks. If nothing else, this second bit of info had made the entire thing worth it — Harry could just imagine both Rowle and Nott squirming under Voldemort's displeasure — and by 'displeasure,' he obviously meant 'Cruciatus Curse.'

As he stood up, the witches and wizards of the Order began to file out to the stairs that led to the main level of the house. Edgar Bones appeared at Harry's elbow, and Harry glanced over at him. He was very eager to talk to Bones — his presence in this timeline was very honestly a mystery to Harry, because it didn't seem like being female made Voldemort any less ruthless or power-hungry.

The leader of the Order smiled pleasantly, and extended his hand. "Edgar Bones, at your service."

Harry took it as he said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Bones."

"I just wanted to come over and formally welcome you to our group. Despite what some people might say or do, we are glad to have you. Moody's paranoid, y'see — he doesn't trust anyone."

Harry couldn't help but smile warmly at that — although Edgar Bones reminded him of Ernie MacMillan a bit, he definitely appreciated the sentiment.

"It's fine. I'm well aware of the price of bearing a famous name — or infamous, as the case may be."

"I can imagine. Dumbledore isn't always right — I know that better than most — but if he trusts you, that's enough."

"I'm very thankful for his patronage," Harry said. "But I'm afraid I don't follow — does it have much to do with why you are the leader and not him?"

Bones did something like an awkward half-shuffle. "I was the first to recognize the person Martha Riddle was — not Dumbledore. My father gathered a group of like-minded individuals together to combat her when I was still in school — and she was still the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

Harry felt his jaw drop in horror. Voldemort had actually held the job? That was...terrifying in more ways than one. But Dumbledore had always seen through her, hadn't he? And perhaps more importantly, why hadn't Dumbledore told Harry this? Because honestly, if he was hoping to include relevant information, it seemed a rather large thing to leave out.

He pushed down his shock and his fury at Dumbledore's secret-keeping, but couldn't keep it entirely out of his voice. "I — I see." He attempted a smile. "I applaud your efforts, then." He looked around, wanting to confront Dumbledore, but the man had vanished.

Bones looked seriously at Harry. "I would have thought Dumbledore would have told you that."

"Well," said Harry, knowing he was now grimacing, "he's never been particularly good at full disclosure."

Bones nodded sagely. "Plays it close to the chest, that one." It was clear that Harry wasn't terribly interested in conversation after that, so Bones just awkwardly added, "Anyway, I've got to go. Glad to have you." And then he left.

Harry sighed, and plopped himself down into one of the chairs. By this time most of the people that were planning on leaving already had, and he noted that neither Lupin nor Sirius had moved from their seats, and Tonks was sitting right across from him.

Mr. Weasley and Bill were a ways down the table, their heads together as they held a whispered conversation. Mrs. Weasley announced that she was going to find her children, and then she'd get started on dinner. The only other person staying was Mundungus, who was quietly snoozing in a corner.

Dumbledore hadn't bothered to tell Harry that Voldemort had been a DADA professor, once upon a time. That was important. Very important. Thinking about it, Harry realized that it also explained perfectly well why a female Voldemort seemed so different — a Voldemort who had wrangled a teaching position at Hogwarts would be in a much better position to create something like the Society, and would probably have devoted less time to murdering people in the night. And, she had a whole lot longer — years, even — to hide a Horcrux, which neatly explained why it wasn't in the Room of Requirement.

But why on earth was that somehow not worth mentioning? Did Dumbledore not actually trust Harry the way he said he did? He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing.

Harry looked up and caught Tonks' eye, and she said cheerfully, "Wotcher!"

"Evening," Harry replied, still a bit disgruntled.

"I'm pretty sure we're cousins," said Tonks, undeterred.

Harry put Dumbledore out of his mind for now — he had been in some ways looking forward to this — he'd always liked Tonks, and she was now probably the closest person in age that he was likely to interact with regularly. However, he needed to sell this backstory a bit, particularly around people who were supposed to be his family. Like Sirius, who was not-so-subtly listening in down the table.

"We are?" The first step was feigning confusion.

"Yep! My mum's your mum's sister. Not that I've ever met your mum, seeing as my mum was disowned for marrying my da. He's Muggle-born, y'see," Tonks said.

"Your mother's Andromeda?" Harry asked.

"That's the one."

"I thought she was dead," Harry said, frowning. Time to add some realism — Bellatrix wouldn't have mentioned Andromeda. "Though I suppose that explains it."

Tonks frowned. "Explains what?"

"Well, if you mother married a Muggle-born, she'd be as good as dead to my mother."

Tonks smiled at that, but it was a bit weak. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Harry said. "My mother's, well — let's not talk about her. So, you're an Auror?"

"Yep!" Tonks said brightly. "Apparently it's a bit of an old boy's club, but Moody took a liking to me."

"An old boy's club?" Harry asked.

"Well, in the last decade or so, apparently it's been a bit more about who you know than what you know, if you'll take my meaning."

"Ahh," Harry said thoughtfully. He would have liked to be able to claim that the Aurors had been different in his time, but he had gotten in purely for being Harry Potter. Granted, he had just come off vanquishing Voldemort, so that was sort of understandable, but he supposed it was possible for the Aurors to be nepotic without Voldemort's influence.

But at the same time, the primary force of law enforcement hiring new members based on nepotism would be almost as effective in hobbling resistance to Voldemort as a curse that prevented a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor from teaching for longer than a year. Funny how things worked out like that.

"Well, good on you for breaking in," he said, with a genuine grin.

Tonks grinned back. At that moment, Mrs. Weasley returned with a group of familiar people, her children — twins Fred and George, Ron, and Ginny, as well as Hermione Granger. Harry's friends.

But not his friends. He stared at Ginny for a long second, before he turned back to Tonks, who was looking up at Mrs. Weasley.

"Molly, do you need help with anything?"

Mrs. Weasley held out her hands to stop her as she said, "No," but Tonks had already bounded up, a bright smile on her face, knocking two chairs onto their sides.

"The children will be happy to help," Mrs. Weasley said placatingly. "You don't need to do anything. Why don't you keep your friend company till dinner's ready?" She nodded her head towards Harry meaningfully, a half-pleading expression on her face.

Harry grinned. "Hey, Tonks, why don't you tell me where you got your jacket?" he asked, indicating the leather jacket she wore.

"Oh!" she said, even as she gave Harry a Look that told him she knew exactly what he was up to. "It's Muggle, y'see? There's this cute selection of shops near my parents' place — I'll have to show you sometime."

Harry wasn't sure if that sounded like a good time, but he said, "I'd love to — and I'd love to meet the rest of your family sometime, if you'll have me." Mrs. Weasley quickly put her children to work setting the table, while Mr. Weasley supervised a bunch of knives slicing vegetables and peeling potatoes.

"Sure. I'll ask Mum when's good," Tonks offered. "Defense Against the Dark Arts, then?"

Harry nodded, "It was always my best subject."

"But you didn't go to Hogwarts," Tonks said, confused.

"No. I attended the illustrious Durmstrang Institute."

Tonks looked at him appraisingly at that, but only commented, "I suppose that makes sense."

Harry just grinned, and looked over at Fred and George, who were juggling a number of butter knives, tossing them to each other in perfect synchronization.

Tonks looked over too, and the twins noted that they had an audience. One of them — Harry thought it was Fred — looked over at Harry and Tonks and winked, before tossing down each knife as he caught it. They landed perfectly in position, in front of each place. Tonks clapped as he finished the performance, and Harry had to admit he was impressed. Sirius and Lupin had looked up from their discussion, and Sirius grinned.

"You charmed them, didn't you?" he said.

Fred and George grinned identical mischievous grins, and the other one — Harry thought this one was George — said, "Now, now, Mr. Black. We can't be giving our secrets away just like that."

And with that, his grin turned roguish, and he glanced over at Harry. Harry supposed he should be flattered, but then it occurred to him exactly how young George was, and seeing both twins hale and healthy made a lump form in his throat uncomfortably.

Tonks must have noticed Harry's discomfort, because she nudged him and said, "Fred, George, have you met my friend here yet?"

"No," Fred said, eyes twinkling.

"We haven't," George added, his grin widening. "You should bring friends around more often, Tonks."

"Well, then, boys, I'd like you to meet your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. You can call her Professor Lestrange," Tonks said with a triumphant smirk.

At this statement, Fred and George blushed furiously, while Ron and Ginny laughed. Even Bill chortled, while Mr. Weasley's lips twitched into a grin.

But the twins gave as good as they got. "Really, Tonks?" Fred asked.

George cut in, "You should have mentioned she was that kind of friend!"

"Yeah, she's a bit old for me, but still, not bad, not bad at all," Fred added.

"Eww, no!" Tonks said, as her face turned scarlet. "Prats!"

Mrs. Weasley scolded, "Fred! George! Stop teasing the poor girl and get to work! We're waiting on you, you know!"

The twins looks chastised, but it didn't stick for long, as they were soon pouring goblets of butterbeer with exquisite flourishes.

"Once they're done, we can start," she said. "It's very lovely to have you all stay for dinner."

She frowned over at Mundungus, and Sirius pointed his wand over at him and shot out a canary yellow spell that Harry recognized as a stinging hex. He flopped out of his chair in a heap, shouting in alarm. At this sight, Harry burst out laughing — he hadn't forgiven Mundungus for stealing from Grimmauld Place after Sirius' death.

Sirius shot Harry something of a dirty look at that, and said, "Dung, it's dinnertime."

Mundungus picked himself up off the floor, and muttered, "All right, I'm up." He slouched over to the table, near Lupin. Harry was surprised when both Hermione and Ginny came over to sit with him and Tonks — he ended up with Sirius on one side and Hermione on the other.

They settled down to eat, and Harry made sure to compliment Mrs. Weasley on the food — she seemed delighted. The next few minutes were filled with the steady clinking of silverware, as the table dug in.

Eventually, Hermione turned to Harry and asked, "Hi, I'm Hermione Granger. You're our new Defense teacher? What kinds of lessons are you planning? It's my O.W.L. year, you see, and I'm ever so worried about doing well. Are you going to cover everything we need? Or should I—"

Harry couldn't stop his lips from twitching. He'd missed Hermione.

"Hermione, was it? Don't worry so much. The book I've assigned has quite a bit of what you need for the test in it, and we'll spend most of our time in class filling in the blanks."

"Are you going to account for the other professors? I mean, we've had four different teachers so far, and, well, Quirrell and Lockhart were both a bit — well — useless. And—"

"Don't worry about it," Harry said abruptly. "Look, I know that it seems like a huge deal right now, but we have a whole year, and Defense doesn't really get very theoretical until at least N.E.W.T. level. If you're truly that worried, I'll get you a list of everything you'll need to know from the first four years by the time term starts."

"Oh, really? That would be wonderful," Hermione gushed.

"Hey!" Tonks said. "Stop being boring so I can show you guys something cool!" Hermione and Harry looked up, and Tonks was frowning at them, Ginny grinning smugly next to her.

Ginny said, "Yeah! Hermione, you can stress out about school later. C'mon! It's summer!" Harry very purposefully didn't look at her — he wasn't sure if he could handle it.

And then Tonks, perhaps picking up on Harry's mood, promptly turned her nose into a beak. Harry grinned, and the other two girls laughed. Tonks flushed with pleasure, and then she made her nose large and crooked, just like Snape's.

Down the table, Fred, George, Ron, and Mundungus were having a conversation about Quidditch. Ron was unsuccessfully trying to convince everyone that the Chudley Cannons had a chance this year.

The elder Weasleys, Sirius, and Lupin were talking about the house, and outlining a plan to begin cleaning Grimmauld Place.

"Do the pig snout, Tonks!" Ginny said.

Tonks obliged, and Harry joined in the laughter this time. Then, a thought occurred to him.

"You're a metamorphmagus," he said brightly.

"Well, yes," Tonks said.

Harry grinned — it hadn't occurred to him in context before — he'd known intellectually that it was a thing, but the connection hadn't been obvious like this.

"I was just thinking — you're also the half-blood."

Hermione's indignance was palpable. "What does that have to do with anything?" she spat.

"In the grand scheme of things? Very little," Harry replied. "But I find it amusing, nonetheless, that it's the half-blood instead of the pure-blood that inherits the family talent."

Hermione's eyes flicked between Harry and Tonks. "You're related?"

"First cousins, actually," Harry admitted. "All the old families are related, Hermione. I'm pretty sure the Weasleys are like our second or third cousins or something like that."

"Second," grunted Sirius.

Harry looked over at him in surprise. He hadn't known he was listening in.

Hermione looked rather put out at that. "But then — how do the purebloods find people to marry? It doesn't make sense — you're going to have to marry your family eventually, and if marrying a muggle-born brings back lost family talents, wouldn't it make sense to branch out a bit?"

Sirius laughed, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Wizards who support blood purity aren't terribly interested in logic, Hermione. That kind of hate isn't about being rational or reasonable, it's about prejudice and bigotry."

At this, he shot Harry a dark look. "And I knew Bellatrix Lestrange when she was in Hogwarts — she was a terror even then. We're cousins, her and I. You'll have to forgive me if I don't believe that any spawn of hers is trustworthy — if that's even what you are."

Hermione let out a little gasp of surprise, and she looked at Harry with recognition. He wasn't paying her attention anymore, instead he was looking at Sirius, eyes narrowed. He wasn't sure how he felt about this strange new version of the man that used to be his godfather.

"What am I, then?" he asked, curious and not a little wary.

"If you really are a Lestrange, how come I've never met you till today?" Sirius said nastily. "I put up with Bellatrix enough as a kid, and I never heard anything about her being pregnant, or having a kid of her own."

"You think I'm lying?" Harry said. "Why on earth do you think I would want to pretend that that despicable woman is my mother?"

"That's what I'm asking!" Sirius roared. "What's your game here? Because I can't quite figure it out — no sane person would impersonate a Lestrange, and no Lestrange would willingly help us."

By this point, the entire table had gone quiet, staring at them.

"I don't understand my mother any more than you," Harry said venomously. Of all the people to question him, he wasn't expecting Sirius. In fact, he was hoping Sirius would understand — and the lack of that understanding cut him deeply. "But I grew up in France, with my father's family. Maybe she wanted to protect me. Maybe she didn't want me to associate with anyone who wasn't a pure-blood. I don't know — I only very recently set foot in Britain. I don't know what else you want me to say."

"I want you to stop lying!" Sirius said. "Bellatrix never had a daughter, and certainly not one your age — unless that's it. You're a bastard — maybe mummy shagged someone who wasn't daddy and hid her shame on the continent. Maybe it was Voldemort herself — maybe you're the disgusting unnatural spawn—"

"Don't you fucking—" Harry cut himself off. He was defending Bellatrix Lestrange of all people, because that's who he was now.

Bellatrix's daughter.

The thought struck Harry — this is what he had bought in his bargain. And somehow, he'd also bought Sirius' eternal hatred. It was sickening — he found he had no more appetite. He looked around, at all the faces staring back at him, full of fear and suspicion. He risked a glance at Ginny, and noted she seemed thunderstruck. In that moment, he realized that as much as he'd like to be, he would never be truly welcome among these people. He wasn't their friend — not like he had been. He wasn't anyone anymore — he'd sold everything he used to be for a golden cup with the Hufflepuff insignia on it, lightly used.

He stood up and spoke, the words monotone. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, for a lovely meal. I see that I'm not welcome. Good evening."

He pushed away from the table, but Sirius had already risen up to block his path, shouting something. Harry's wand was already raised, and there was a bang, and Sirius went flying against the wall.

Harry walked out. Out the door, up the stairs, down the hallway, and out of that accursed house.

Now, he was nothing — he didn't even know who he was anymore. He wasn't Harry Potter, who was kind and brave and good, and loyal. He was this Corvus Lestrange — who knew more Dark magic than anyone should, who had been through hell and outlived that dead world. But it had followed him — and now he'd never escape it, never go back to having what he'd once had.

He couldn't even sleep like a normal person — either he tossed and turned on a real bed, plagued by nightmares, or he slept soundly in trees of all things, but never for more than two or three hours.

And, as if a dam had burst, the uncomfortable realization also hit him that he wasn't a him anymore. It wasn't that he wasn't aware of this — it was the material reality that he'd grown used to. But he'd never faced it before, never openly admitted to himself that he was a she now, and would be for the rest of his — a grimace — her life.

Then he realized that he was crying, tears rolling down his face, screwed up with the effort of holding it all in.

For some reason, the last thing was the only one that stuck. It was silly, but it was the only one he hadn't chosen — and it was made that much more terrible for it. He could accept that he'd become someone barely recognizable to the people he cared about, he could accept that whenever people saw him, they saw Bellatrix Lestrange — he could accept those things because he'd known that they would happen, or at least, that they could happen.

But he hadn't chosen this. And it was silly compared to anything else — Harry felt enormously picky for objecting to something that was ultimately so pointless. Who cared if someone was a man or a woman? That kind of thing shouldn't matter — he was still him even if he was her. And it didn't matter, not when it came to stopping Voldemort.

He'd simply not allowed it to matter — he hadn't stopped to dwell on it, on anything, really. But it seemed that he couldn't ignore it forever.

"Hey, you alright?"

Harry jerked up and looked around. He realized he'd been sitting on the curb of Grimmauld Place, crying and looking like a lunatic. Tonks was standing there, looking a bit awkward, and she offered him a hand.

He took it gratefully, and said, "I'm fine."

She took one look at him and snorted. "No you're not. Sirius is an arsehole. I don't know what got into him."

Harry shrugged. "He's right, you know. I don't know any of you — maybe he and Moody are right."

"No, they're just bloody paranoid. You're not like them just because you're related to them. Sirius should know that better than anyone."

"But Tonks," Harry said, looking her right in the eye. "What if I really am like them?"

"Don't be daft," Tonks said dismissively. "You're here, aren't you? And if you're not all talk — and I don't think you are — then you could have walked right up to Voldemort and asked to join the Death Eaters, and she would have welcomed you with open arms. But you didn't do that — you did the hard thing."

Then the charged tone of her words vanished, and she was all smiles again. "But hey, if we're going to get all sappy, we shouldn't be this sober. What do you say to a night out on the town? We could go to the Hog's Head, or the Three Broomsticks? Or, I know a few good Muggle places 'round here."

Harry mustered up something of a smile, and admitted, "I could go for a good Firewhiskey, I suppose."

"Excellent," Tonks beamed. And then she Apparated them both away.

* * *

Harry returned to consciousness, and immediately wished he hadn't, mostly because of the enormous stake that someone had apparently driven through his forehead. His thoughts were muddled, and it felt like thinking too much would strain something important — Occlumency was a pipe dream at this point, and the last thing he remembered was giggling along with Tonks at some Muggle bar in London.

The next thing he noticed was that he was lying in a bush. Harry often slept in trees, but he had a very specific method of hanging a hammock properly high up and concealing it with a number of charms and enchantments that hid him from view. There were none of these, and he really was just lying in a bush in a forest that looked suspiciously like the Forbidden Forest.

It was terribly uncomfortable, and he groaned and stretched as he sat up. The sun's light glared down at him, oppressive even as he raised a hand to shield his eyes.

His hand felt oddly sticky, and he held it in front of his face, confused. It was absolutely covered in dried blood. In fact, both his hands were covered in it, and the blood soaked his entire forearms, right down to the rolled-up sleeves on the semi-casual blazer he'd worn to the Ministry of Magic, which felt somehow like it had taken place a week ago. Strangely enough, he was also wearing Voldemort's ring Horcrux — which was still intact, mostly because he was worried about immolating the Resurrection Stone with fiendfyre.

None of the blood seemed to be his, which quite honestly was not really a good thing at this point. In fact, other than his terrible hangover, he seemed to be totally unharmed. Again, not a good thing.

He rummaged around in his pockets, more or less giving up on this outfit — it wasn't like he couldn't afford to replace it, and he wasn't much for dressing up in the first place.

The good thing was that he found a bunch of clues as to why he was covered in blood up to both forearms.

The bad thing was that he found three unfamiliar wands and a severed finger in his coat pocket.

"What the fuck did I do last night?" he wondered aloud.

Then, he considered it a bit. In all honesty, it was pretty obvious what he did last night.

The better question was, "Who the fuck did I kill last night?"


	5. The Hangover

**Chapter 5  
The Hangover**

Harry Apparated into the dirty water closet, right next to the toilet.

This was a very good thing because he was entirely too hungover for Apparition to go over well, so he'd Apparated to the bathroom of the bar he and Tonks had been to last night so when he inevitably had to vomit from the trip, he'd have a convenient place to do it. Harry had to admit that he was inordinately pleased with himself for this bit of logic, even if he didn't really want to closely examine why he could so easily recall the loo, and in such accurate detail, too.

And, like clockwork, he quickly hit the rim of the toilet with a _Scourgify_ , leaned over, and then promptly was sick. After a few moments, he straightened up and wiped his mouth, grimacing. Gross as it was, he did at least feel better, even if his headache hadn't abated. In fact, considering his little detour into Hogwarts to shower earlier, he felt almost human.

He took one look at himself in the mirror, noted just how bloodshot his eyes looked, and walked out of the bathroom.

A woman was tiredly mopping away at the floor amidst a forest of chairs stacked on tables. She looked up as Harry walked out of the bathroom. Her face was relatively unremarkable, with brown eyes and limp-looking brunette hair. She was also surprisingly broad — not in a pudgy way, merely in that her hips and shoulders were wider than average.

"We're closed," she said, wary. "How did you get in here?"

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I was just hoping to ask — it's my friend, you see. I'm not sure where she ended up and this is the last place I remember visiting last night. It was — well, it's been a rough day so far."

The woman eyed Harry suspiciously. "How d'you lose someone?"

"Well, I can't find her," Harry explained. He didn't really have the energy this morning for elaborate excuses or explanations, and he did genuinely want to make sure Tonks made it home safe. But she was a big girl, and could take care of herself, so making sure he wasn't being hunted by Aurors took priorities. "I just want to know if you remember seeing me or a woman with blue hair last night."

"And what if I have?"

Harry just eyed her — his headache was getting worse the longer this woman asked bloody pointless questions. "Then I'd appreciate if you'd tell me, so I can retrace our steps."

The woman looked unimpressed. "Have you contacted the bobbies?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "No. She's only been missing this morning."

"How come you know she's missing if you haven't talked to the bobbies? Did you go to her house and everything?"

Harry gently massaged his temples, trying to relieve the headache that was pounding full force.

"Sod it," he muttered to himself. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand. " _Imperio_!"

The woman's gaze went slack and unfocused. "Stop asking stupid questions!" he hissed.

Blissful silence ensued. Harry basked in it for a few minutes, willing his headache to disappear to no avail.

"Alright, let's try again," he said. "Did you see me or a blue-haired woman here last night?"

"I remember blue hair," the woman replied in a monotone. "But she said she was going home when she left."

Harry's mouth twisted in displeasure. "Is that everything you remember?" he asked, wishing that he wasn't too hungover for Legilimency. It would have been so much easier to simply rip the answers from her mind.

"Yes," the woman said.

"Fine," Harry said. " _Obliviate_." He released the Imperius Curse, and walked out of the bar, into the dingy London back alley.

Harry sighed. That had been spectacularly unhelpful, and he was no closer to discovering what he needed to know. The Wizarding World was small enough that three dead wizards would not go unnoticed for long, and it would be incredibly inconvenient if he was charged with murder and sent to Azkaban.

He was perfectly capable of breaking out, of course, but it would be rather difficult to keep his job at Hogwarts if he was a wanted felon, and remaining a professor at Hogwarts was integral to finding the Diadem and researching how a zombie apocalypse might have started.

Almost instinctively, his right hand strayed to the palm of his left, where a thick scar rested — the kind that one got from many and repeated cuts in the exact same place. It had a new cut, this one wide and deep and placed directly over the rest of the scar tissue.

A cut like that meant one thing: Harry had done some Dark magic last night. Not something small or borderline like a nasty hex or minor curse. Blood had power, in a way that few other things did. And all the spells Harry knew that called for blood were vicious, hateful things. Blood magic was the Wizarding equivalent of a battleaxe: old, crude, and powerful in a blunt-force trauma to the head kind of way. They were ancient throwbacks of a more savage time, and none of them were nice or helpful or friendly.

Add that to the mystery that was the ring horcrux on his hand, and it painted a very disturbing picture.

He needed to find the owners of those wands. Finding Tonks was also important, but it was frustrated by the fact that Harry didn't know where she lived, so he couldn't check on her at home. He could try Grimmauld Place, but the inevitable interrogation that would occur if he did turned his stomach — although that could have just been nausea.

There was nothing else for it, then. He'd have to try Knockturn Alley. The odds were that anyone he was likely to drunkenly murder was someone from there — Harry figured he could poke around and see if anyone had turned up dead last night, and hopefully he'd get lucky.

He didn't particularly want to go to Diagon Alley at all, as it was possible that the Aurors were already looking for him, and walking around in the Alley in broad daylight could be playing directly into their hands. But, he couldn't exactly avoid it forever, so he might as well bite the proverbial bullet.

He didn't feel up to another Apparition, so he took the twenty-minute Underground trip to Charing Cross Road, through the teeming masses of Muggles commuting to work. The number of people combined with his pounding headache precluded him from enjoying the trip. Instead, he kept his head down and brusquely ignored catching anyone's eye during the route.

At the Leaky Cauldron, Harry couldn't quite dodge the toothless bartender's notice. He waved cheerfully, and Harry offered him a small incline of the head — even nodding felt a bit much.

He'd been prepared to pass by completely, but, on a whim, he stopped, and caught Tom's eye. The man looked up, his perpetually cheerful expression not wavering.

"Do you have a paper?" Harry asked.

"Aye, I do, Miss," he said, leaning down beneath the counter and producing an issue of _The Daily Prophet_.

Harry dug into a pocket for his Wizarding money, and handed over a few coins. "Thank yeh," Tom said.

"No problem. Can I get some tea?" He very much wanted to be alert for the inevitable trip through Knockturn Alley.

"Be along in a sec."

At that, Harry settled into a booth with _The Daily Prophet_. He could very likely get a good handle on what the Ministry knew about last night in the paper, and the very first story was a scathing piece about Dumbledore's removal as Britain's representative to the International Confederation of Wizards. Harry couldn't remember when that had happened last time, but it seemed appropriate enough, all things considered.

Not that it was good news — as annoyed as he might be at Dumbledore for his antics last night, the man's influence and political power was a necessary shield against this new Ministry — particularly if he'd committed some manner of homicide, justified or no, and any reduction in Dumbledore's power was not a good thing.

The second story was about the Kenmore Kestrals being utterly destroyed by...the Chudley Cannons? Harry frowned. He couldn't claim that he'd followed professional Quidditch all that closely, but he knew that one of the constants of the universe was that the Chudley Cannons were horrible. He read the article closely — it seemed almost unbelievable, but the article seemed to imply that this was not some sort of fluke — apparently the Cannons were quite good, and had been for a number of years.

Harry had to sit and enjoy the tea that Tom had brought while he was reading for a few moments. Try as he might, this was the one thing that he was having trouble wrapping his head around — differences in the Death Eater's modus operandi were obvious, differences in the the Order's power structure were likely, Voldemort's employment at Hogwarts at least understandable, really, but the bloody Chudley Cannons? How in the name of Merlin's baggy Y-fronts did a female Voldemort mean a total reversal of fortunes for the league's worst Quidditch team?

Harry didn't know, and it didn't make any sense — had Voldemort somehow killed or not killed some important person in the Cannons' organization that made them total shite before and — he checked the paper again — second in the league now?

He slumped down onto the table, and decided not to think about it any more. It wasn't worth bothering with — he flipped over the paper, reading further.

It wasn't until the third page that he found a small blurb that was headlined, "INFERIUS ATTACK IN KNOCKTURN ALLEY." Harry had to frown at that. He couldn't imagine it how was page three news, honestly, especially considering Quidditch had made the front page, but that probably said something significant about the _Daily Prophet_.

The article itself was sparse on details — it only mentioned that a werewolf had been mauled to death by a reanimated corpse late last night in one of the shadier parts of Knockturn Alley. Harry considered that. It was in all honesty the closest thing he had to a clue, but he couldn't imagine why his drunken self would feel the need to create Inferi. Though, that did explain the blood magic. Attacking people with the corpses of their friends pretty well-encompassed the 'ancient, violent magics' part.

Harry sort of hoped that Drunk Harry had more sense than that — he was rubbish when it came to making Inferi, that sort of finicky charm _and_ potions work had been more Hermione's thing. Harry's Inferi always got listless after a while and refused to do anything — they just stopped what they were doing and lay down, looking like an actual dead person.

The only thing that got them off their lazy arses after that was a Cheering Charm, and those always caused them to laugh hysterically and uncontrollably, even after the Cheering Charm wore off.

Plus, he was dreadfully slow at making them, and he hated potions. It would be absolutely no help at all in an actual fight, no matter how much he could out-duel his enemy. He had to stay in the same place and use his wand to make the Inferi, so making them in battle was more or less asking to be cursed. He would have also had to have made the potion beforehand, which sounded like a whole lot of forethought and preparation for someone who was blackout drunk.

So, naturally, Inferi weren't Harry's go-to method of killing werewolves.

It was curious, though, because all the other facts fit — odds were, the werewolf he killed was a follower of Greyback — Harry didn't think it was Greyback himself because the _Prophet_ would definitely mention it if Greyback had been killed — and Drunk Harry would have found him to be an acceptable target for some of his pent-up energy. The fight with Voldemort had been over a month ago — Harry had not gone so long without some kind of action in a whole month in...he couldn't really remember.

So, all in all, if not for the bizarre use of Inferi, Harry would have thought this was it.

The rest of the paper contained nothing that seemed at all likely to be his drunken misadventures of last night, so Harry turned back to the article about the inferi. It didn't have any details about what happened to the inferius, but it was outside of one of the seedier establishments of Knockturn, a bar that didn't really have a name — everyone just called it the corner pub.

Nothing for it, then.

He got up, paid Tom for the tea, and walked out into the back alley that contained the entrance to Diagon Alley. The Alley was still unspoiled by the war that would come when Voldemort was forced out into the open, and Harry took a moment to look around the place that had so captivated him as a child.

A witch emerged from Slug and Jiggers as he passed, muttering darkly about the price of boomslang skin. Harry ignored her, and rounded the corner into Knockturn. This early in the day, the alley was as bright as it ever got — even if that meant that it was covered in deep shadows and the temperature dropped a few degrees once into the alley proper.

The day had just begun to heat up by then, and the chillier, shadier place was refreshing. Harry was also relieved to find it deserted — as far as he could tell, most of the people that frequented this place simply weren't morning people. There was a man who looked rather like a skeleton, he was so thin, but he did nothing more than meet Harry's eyes and tip his top hat as they passed each other.

On reaching the strip of alley that held the corner pub, Harry pulled up short. instead of the quiet of the rest of the Alley, this section was covered by a bunch of purple-robed, officious-looking witches and wizards. Aurors.

Harry cursed quietly to himself, head throbbing even worse as a grey-haired man approached him.

"What's your business here?" the Auror asked.

Harry composed himself and said, "Just looking for some — er — flesh-eating slug repellant." That was far from his best lie.

"Is that so?" the man said, looking skeptical. "I didn't think you needed to come this deep into the alley to find the slug repellant."

Harry refused to let this man intimidate him into anything. "It's surprisingly hard to find."

"And why do you need flesh-eating slug-repellent?"

Harry grinned. "For repelling flesh-eating slugs, of course."

The Auror glowered. "So they're a bit of a problem for you, then, Miss…?" he trailed off expectantly.

As little as he wanted to give his name, Harry figured that giving a fake name would only make him look more suspicious. Umbridge would definitely use this as more ammunition against him, and if she also could claim he'd lied to the Aurors, he'd only look worse. Harry figured that sooner or later, she'd come after him, but the longer he could delay the inevitable manhunt, the better.

"Corvus Lestrange, at your service," he said, unable to resist following it up with a mocking bow.

The Auror sneered at him. "And I'm supposed to believe that you're here for flesh-eating slug repellant? A likely story."

"What is it that you imagine I'm up to instead?"

Coal-black eyes narrowed. "I imagine you're returning to the scene of the crime to destroy evidence or, to Confound the lawful authorities. Whatever it is, it can't be good."

Harry had to laugh, because that was uncomfortably close to the truth. "As if I'd let you see me if I was here to hide evidence," he said with a chuckle. "I'm not, for what it's worth. I don't even know what happened here last night."

The man eyed Harry suspiciously, but didn't catch the lie. "Three people were murdered. Some sick fuck decided that murder wasn't enough, though. As far as we can tell, they killed the first one and brought him back as an Inferius and set him on the other two. Then they sat back and watched. Haven't seen this kind of shite since the Death Eaters were rounded up and sent to Azkaban." He punctuated this last statement with a not-at-all subtle glance towards Harry.

"I see. I'm honestly surprised the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is investigating the death of a werewolf so thoroughly. It's nice to see our justice system working fairly for once," Harry said, pasting a smile onto his face. "By the way, I hear it's polite to offer your name when someone gives you theirs."

The man grimaced. "Auror Gawain Robards," he grunted. "We're very interested in catching sick fucks who create Inferi, no matter what they use them for."

"Nice to meet you, Auror Robards," Harry said, voice saccharine. "And nice to hear that the government of this country is still as backwards as ever."

"Can't say the same. Now leave before I arrest you, Lestrange."

Harry turned away, and hurried up the street. If the Aurors hadn't arrested him there, they weren't going to.

Which meant he could just owl Tonks and take the morning off.

He grinned. He wanted very much to go to his quarters and collapse in bed and sleep for the rest of the day, but the fact of the matter was that he'd been quite lucky to avoid running into Dumbledore once already this morning, and it was very likely too much to ask for it to happen again.

Harry _really_ didn't want to talk to the Headmaster today. For one, he needed his wits about him to properly get the truth about Voldemort's tenure as the DADA professor, and, for another, if Dumbledore had any tough questions about his activities last night he wanted to be in full possession of his faculties.

So, Hogwarts was right out. Grimmauld Place was similarly out. He could just go hide in the Forest of Dean for a day or two, but a part of him chafed against doing something like that. Now that he had lived in civilization for a bit, spending all day in the woods didn't have quite the same appeal that it once did.

No, he had something different in mind.

* * *

A very different Harry Potter was having a very different sort of day. He'd been out weeding and gardening for most of the morning, despite the heat of one of the hottest summers on record.

Aunt Petunia was bound and determined to both have the best garden on the block, and at the same time not cheat on the hosepipe ban, unlike the rest of the block. So, the task fell to Harry to somehow make a picture perfect garden without a hose in one of the worst droughts during one of the hottest summers in recent memory.

Needles to say, it was thankless and brutally difficult. Harry was only too happy to get back to his room after a long day in the yard. It was a Saturday, so Dudley was who knows where, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were parked in front of the telly downstairs. He'd originally planned to get some homework done, but the food and the heat had made him lethargic, so he ended up dozing off on his bed instead of writing his essay for History of Magic.

It had been a few days since he'd been visited by his...well, _friend_ was probably the best word for Corvus. True to her word, she had shown up once every few days with the motorbike and shown herself to be a surprisingly good teacher. He hadn't quite figured out the reason for her generosity, or why she was so interested in him, but he was grateful nevertheless.

If nothing else, regular discussion into locomotion charms and the internal workings of a truly ancient motorcycle — the Black Shadow was very old — broke up his boredom nicely.

The things he was truly grateful to her for, however, were the small tidbits she often shared about Voldemort. As Harry had guessed, Dumbledore was working with a bunch of supporters to get the word out, counter the Ministry's lies, and protect...something that Lestrange remained cagey about, which made Harry unhappy, but she was not to be budged.

Still, that was worlds better than what he was getting in letters, but somehow that didn't seem to matter quite so much. His correspondences with his friends and godfather had even moved beyond constant questions and reassurances. He'd even asked Sirius about his old bike, hoping for a tip or two on how to animate the one they were working on now. His godfather had waxed poetic about the bike he'd put together, which was nice and helped them a bit with how to get the steering working.

Ron and Hermione, too, were a lot more pleasant to talk to now that their conversations weren't impeded by the gulf of information between them — Corvus keeping him updated meant that he no longer felt the sting of being left completely out of the loop.

He rolled over and picked up his most recent letters. One from Sirius describing his bike and asking about Harry's interest, one from Hermione that went on for about a page about Defense Against the Dark Arts and how behind they all were — she was brilliant, but oh boy did she worry too much, and a letter from Ron that detailed the latest Cannons victory over the Kestrals. He needed to write back, but it could wait, as he felt far too hot to do anything today.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

Vernon got up to get it. It was likely a very late postman, or one of the neighbors. Harry could hear his uncle open the door, and then his uncle complaining loudly about something. One of the neighbors, then. The postman and Uncle Vernon didn't get along very well after the incident where Ripper, Aunt Marge's dog, attacked the postman, and Uncle Vernon told the bleeding man to 'man up.' So, if the visitor was staying to talk to Harry's uncle, it was very unlikely to be the postman.

After a few minutes, Uncle Vernon's voice echoed up the stairs and through his doorway, left open for the crossbreeze.

"Boy! Get down here!"

"Who is it?" Harry asked. He didn't really feel like bothering with the Dursleys at the moment.

"It's one of _your_ kind. A frea—" Uncle Vernon's last word was cut off with a strangled gurgle, followed by a shrill scream that sounded like Aunt Petunia.

Harry was up out of bed and down the hall, wand in hand, in a heartbeat. He dashed around the corner, down the stairs, and found the door ajar, his uncle cowering against the wall of the entryway, face pale and eyes wide with fright.

Corvus Lestrange stood there, deadly calm and breathing hard, wand up and pointed at Uncle Vernon. He noted that she looked very disheveled today. Aunt Petunia stood in the door to the living room, frozen in terror, hands over her mouth.

"Call me that again," Lestrange said, voice strangely breathy. "Go on, call me a freak."

Uncle Vernon paled further, and muttered something Harry couldn't catch. Aunt Petunia whimpered.

"What was that?" Lestrange asked, breathing more intensely now, like she'd just been running. "Speak up, oaf!"

Uncle Vernon looked at Harry in panic. Harry frantically shook his head no.

He didn't seem convinced however, and opened his mouth to say something that was undoubtedly going to get him murdered.

Harry decided right then and there to intervene. "Lestrange," he said warningly. "Please don't hurt my uncle." Bloodshot, dark green eyes swiveled to meet his, wide with surprise.

She glanced between him and Uncle Vernon, and let her wand down slightly, closing her eyes.

"Please?" she whined, in a surprisingly childish voice. "This one's not even related to you. You don't even need him for the blood wards."

"No," Harry said.

"Just a little bit of cursing? I won't even use the Cruciatus," she promised.

"You can't," he repeated, feeling like he this was not going at all like he'd expected it to. That seemed to happen frequently around Corvus Lestrange, who was now _pouting_ at him. "You're better than that," he told her.

She looked very sad as she replied, "I'm really not, Harry. But fine, you win."

Uncle Vernon looked half like he wanted to take advantage of her apparent distraction and attack her, but Harry shook his head, more vehemently this time. That was a _very_ stupid idea.

She huffed like a teenager, and turned back to Uncle Vernon, voice hard and cold again. "I'm not in the mood today, Dursley." And with that, she turned around and stomped out the door.

Harry glanced at his aunt and uncle. They both looked terrified. Harry sighed, because Lestrange had very likely just justified every little bit of hatred they had for his kind, and they'd be twice as bad when they recovered their wits.

They stared at him. He stared back.

"I think you should learn something here, Uncle Vernon. All the wizards you've met before today have been nice, upstanding people who respect others and uphold the law. Today you met one that wasn't. And then you insulted her, right to her face, and look how she reacted. Look — just be careful. Wizards are dangerous. And they aren't all good people like my parents were," he said.

His Aunt and Uncle were looking back at him. Uncle Vernon was looking like he was about to get angry again, but Aunt Petunia looked at least contemplative.

He turned and left, finding Lestrange in the park where she'd first met him here in Little Whinging. She didn't look up when he sat down beside her, still staring blankly forward, almost directly into the setting sun.

"Thanks for that," he said.

"For not killing him?" she asked.

"For sticking up for me," he clarified. She went to make a noise of protest, but he pressed on. "I can handle Uncle Vernon. He's a prick, but we've reached something of an understanding."

"I hate that word," she said.

"Freak?" he asked. "It's just a word." Inwardly, he was wondering just how similar their situations were, because he'd thought she was just reacting to Vernon's obvious dislike of wizards in general, but it seemed like more than that.

Next to him, Lestrange let out a huge sigh. "I'm too fucking hung-over for this," she admitted.

Harry snorted.

"I'm hiding from everyone else today," Lestrange explained. "Dumbledore's an arsehole and so is the rest of the Order. But you're not. A bit of a moody teenager—"

"Hey!" he protested.

"—but you're not a prat, at least."

"Oh," Harry said. "So you mean you're really hungover and you're ignoring your responsibilities."

"No!" she said. Harry just looked at her. "Fine, maybe a bit."

He laughed. Corvus eyed him, and then a small golden object was hurtling towards him, surprisingly quickly. Harry wasn't a star seeker for nothing, though, and his hand snaked out and caught it instead.

It was a ring. In fact, it was the same ugly gold ring topped with a chunky black stone combination that he'd seen in the graveyard all those nights ago. And it was smeared with something slimy and sticky — oh what the hell, was that blood?

"What the bloody hell?" he asked.

Lestrange at least had the grace to look sheepish at the fact she'd tossed what was very likely was the Darkest of Dark artifacts at him like it was a wadded-up bit of rubbish.

"I'm a bit of a mess today, if you can't tell," she said.

Harry just gaped at her. Understatement of the century, that.

"Did you just throw a chunk of Voldemort at me?"

She laughed at him.

"You did, didn't you? And its covered in blood! It's like when Dudley leaves his bits of toenail all over the sink. What in the name of Merlin have you been doing with this this thing, anyway?" he asked.

He held out the ring with the very tips of his fingers, trying not to get any more of the blood on him than he already had.

But Lestrange wasn't laughing at him or looking at him at all, anymore. Instead, her gaze was laser-focused on the ring, and she looked like her thoughts were a million miles away.

"Oh," was all she said.

"Oh?" he asked.

"It all makes sense now."

"Because that statement totally explains everything, Lestrange," Harry said, a bit scathingly. He regretted it afterwards, because her eyes focused immediately and narrowed on him.

She sized him up for a moment, and then held out her hand for the ring. He dropped it onto her palm, the gold glinting oddly in the late afternoon sun.

"Are you sure you want to know what something like this can be used for, Harry Potter?" she asked, and suddenly the whole tempo of the conversation shifted, from a nice, regular time signature to an, odd uneven one that left everyone lurching to keep time.

He stared at it, and at her, her eyes bloodshot and her face wan and tired. Had her face always been so skeletal, so thin that it seemed like too little skin had been stretched over too much bone? And her eyes, had they always been so intense, glittering green-black and holding so many secrets and magics that been lost to time, or, perhaps, buried so deeply that only the truly evil or the truly desperate might risk uncovering them?

She smiled, which twisted thin lips into something that only mockingly and morbidly resembled a grin.

"Harry, some bits of magic you're better off not knowing. Some things that you can do — they cheapen you. Some paths don't make you better or smarter or a more enlightened person at all. They just make you better at hurting people.

"This kind of magic? This is truly crude — this is the magical equivalent of using a Van Gogh as a truncheon."

Harry stared at her, and at the ring in her hands, which glinted with a sinister light. Lestrange seemed to be warning him away, but she was still offering him the choice.

He said, "It sounds like you don't want me to know."

"I want it to be your choice, Harry. I want you to go into anything you choose with eyes open."

"We're not just talking about one spell anymore, are we?" Harry asked.

"No," Lestrange said. "We're not."

"But — I don't understand. Will learning about one spell be so bad?"

"It won't — but these things have a way of sticking in the mind. It's nothing so dramatic as all the horror stories about Dark magic corrupting the mind and turning you into a Dark wizard, but it's exceedingly rare for someone to learn _just one_ Dark spell.

"Sure, you learn one, and then you think, 'I won't use it; I just want to know.' And that's true for a time. And then, you get angry, or scared, desperate, and then you react, and you cast that spell. Of course, the sky doesn't fall, nothing truly bad happens. You don't start cackling evilly or torturing Muggles for fun. And then you think, 'that wasn't that bad, actually.'

"And then you learn more, and use more, because that's what the Dark Arts is — subtle. And then you wake up one day and realize that it's become a part of who you are, as much as your magic or your arm or leg. And you can't let go of it anymore because it feels like walking around blind, or with one arm tied behind your back."

Lestrange lapsed into silence, seemingly lost in thought. Harry didn't want to interrupt her, but he thought that she wasn't really talking about him anymore. But she seemed more...unbalanced than usual, honestly. Not that she was the most emotionally centered person in the first place, but still — she had gone from violent to playful to deadly serious in the space of a few minutes.

Her warning seemed strange to him, because it had seemed so...so personal, so...real, like she was talking about herself. But that couldn't be true, could it? Lestrange had come from a Dark family, one of the Darkest. That story sounded as if someone like Hermione, if she were to walk the path of a Dark witch. Not someone who had learned how to curse around the same time she learned to walk.

If she had gotten into the Dark Arts, it would be no gradual path of discovery for her. It would be going back to her roots — not something she learned spell-by-spell, but as part of a comprehensive childhood education.

But Harry didn't voice any of those thoughts.

Instead, he said, "I don't want to learn the Dark Arts at all, actually. I just need to know if it you think it would be helpful to beat Voldemort."

Lestrange smiled a small, wan smile, and she tucked the ring back into the baggy Muggle jeans she was wearing. Harry thought privately that they might be men's jeans, but somehow they worked for her wasteland refugee look. Lestrange's wardrobe was a bit strange, because sometimes she would dress casually, in jeans and a shirt, or sometimes she would wear these strangely formal-looking jackets, but never wizard's robes. It was another odd quirk of hers — if he had met her and known nothing about her blood heritage, he would have thought her a muggle-born, or at least muggle-raised.

"You have a good head on your shoulders. A far better head than me, at the very least. Still, I was going to offer to tell you, since you'd need a major artifact that had been turned into a Horcrux to do this."

"Not trying to turn me to the Dark side, then?" he asked.

"Heh. As if. We don't want speckly, half-blood runts like you."

"Oi!" he said. "What's that about? I always felt like the best argument against the Dark Arts was that it meant you were immediately associated with Crabbe and Goyle."

"Ouch," Lestrange said. "Don't compare me to those two."

"How do you know who I'm talking about?" Harry asked.

"Do I need to know anything other than that they're Crabbes and Goyles?" Lestrange asked, and wasn't that the truth.

Harry sobered a bit then. "A Horcrux. That's a bit of soul, then?"

"Yes," Lestrange said. "It's a vile bit of magic. After killing someone, your soul is...loose, for lack of a better word. So, using the Dark Arts, it's possible to carve out a hunk and stash it in an object. A ring, for instance."

"And this will prevent you from dying?" Harry asked.

"Yes. But only that. Hence Voldemort's long absence. It makes you nothing more than alive — you are lost, broken, a consciousness that exists only because it demands to. It agony to do so, but if you want it enough — as Voldemort does, it is possible to live beyond the death of your body, even if you are killed with _Avada_ _Kedavra_ ," Lestrange said.

"That sounds — that sounds horrible," Harry admitted.

"It is."

"Why would anyone want that?"

"To some people, there is nothing worse than death."

Harry stopped for a minute. "Voldemort, you mean."

"Yes. To effectively combat her, you must understand her."

"This is why you're teaching me this?"

"You must learn this, Harry Potter, if we are to hope that you will be able to defeat her," she said.

"I take it that today's not much of a motorcycle day," Harry offered.

Lestrange laughed, "No, not today. Though I want you to think about the problem of lift for next time." They had learned more or less pretty easily how to tune up the bike with magic, and to make it less of a project to get started. But actually making the thing fly — that was the challenge.

"I don't understand why I need to learn about Muggle aviation, honestly," he said.

"Honestly? It's interesting, and it's often best to learn how to do something with physics before you learn to use magic. Magic is a useful tool, but _I_ don't know any spells that make motorbikes fly without unpacking the mechanics a bit."

"Ahh," Harry said. He could live with that answer.

They lapsed into silence for a while. Then, something occurred to Harry. He frowned.

"Her diary — have you heard of the Chamber of Secrets?"

Lestrange smiled, and it was neither mocking nor derisive. Instead, it was a proud, pleased little thing.

"Yes, exactly, Harry. The diary was a Horcrux. She made more than one."

"Oh. Well, we destroyed that, then." The memory of his small, blood-splattered hand grasping the enormous fang of Slytherin's monster flashed through his head, and he resisted the shudder.

"Well done, Harry." Harry couldn't help but feel immensely proud at the praise.

"So...we need to destroy all of her Horcruxes to kill her?"

Lestrange nodded. "Killing her at this point — like I said in the graveyard, it is an inconvenience at most. She has proven herself to be greater than death, even if we did disrupt her grand return."

"We did? But — you didn't really stop her, or capture any Death Eaters."

"Harry, they call her 'my Lady.' Whether the Death Eaters will admit to it or not, they revere her. We defeated her. We defied her. And we are still standing, whole and unharmed. It does not matter how small or how hard-fought that victory was, but she has _lost_ , and in front of her supporters. That sets her back more than you can imagine — where she's appeared undefeatable until now, she can claim that no more. By Harry Potter and some no-name witch, as well. Whether or not they show it, they no longer believe in her as thoroughly as they once did."

"You've put a lot of thought into this," Harry said. "But something still bothers me. How do you know all this? You grew up in France and went to school at Durmstrang. Why Britain, and why now? And how do you know all these things about a country you've never been to before? It's not that I don't trust you — I just don't understand you."

Lestrange stopped and closed her eyes. "My secrets are my own, Harry Potter. Don't go there. Bad things have happened to people who have gone there."

Harry wasn't buying this, though. "You backed down from Uncle Vernon when I asked. I'm not so sure you'd hurt me. I think you're mostly talk."

She laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. "So that's how it is. I'm secretly a nice person because of my soft spot for you, then? Did it never occur to you that you are the only person I would offer such a courtesy? That anyone else, I would have murdered right then and there and not even felt bad about it afterwards?"

Harry gulped, and pulled back a bit. She leaned in to follow him, her eyes flashing.

"Why me?" he asked, feeling something stuck in his throat. "Why — out of all people, why care about me? I know I'm the Boy-Who-Lived and all, but you don't seem the type to put much stock in something like that."

"True," she admitted. "I have — I have a lot of regrets. I've always known I could trust you, Harry Potter. The weight of this world — it rests with you. It means that you _must_ be ready for it, or everything will be lost."

"What does that even mean?" Harry asked, feeling suddenly tired.

"What does it mean? It means that power corrupts, and it has had a very long time to work on me. It means that I trust you because I must, because without you, we are all lost."

And then Harry looked at Corvus Lestrange — really looked at her — and he saw someone that had run out of things to believe in. She had this way about her — it wasn't just today, when she was bloodshot and disheveled and a bit of a mess — but all the time, like she was on her last legs, about to collapse at any point. It was more than the way she dressed, more than the enormous bags under her eyes; it was in her stance, her walk.

"You've fought her before," he protested. "You can beat her. Dumbledore can beat her. Why me? I haven't even finished school — I'm not even the best in the year, that's Hermione."

"Is it so hard to believe that I see myself in you, Harry Potter?"

Harry thought about that. "But we're different people. We come from different places, have different experiences. How could you know so much about me that you see yourself?"

"It's quite simple, really. You were prepared to fight, because no one else would. For whatever reason, destiny is thrust upon you, Harry Potter. And you rose to face that destiny. Not for yourself, or for glory, but simply because _someone_ had to do it. And that is a noble thing. Is it not an admirable thing, too?"

"I don't feel like a hero. I'm nothing special, really," Harry protested.

"And that, if nothing else, reveals your quality. What you consider to be nothing special is heroism, and the fact that you think nothing of it is what is truly special about you, Harry Potter."

"I'm not."

Lestrange's eyes glinted. "I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree, then." And then she closed her mouth and stared off into the distance.

Harry was content to sit next to her in silence for a bit, before venturing, "So, what do you do with a Horcrux that you don't want to tell me about?"

"On one condition," Lestrange said. "You tell me your honest opinion of what I have done."

"You mean you've used it already?" Harry asked.

She smiled a grim, humorless smile.

"The thing about this ring — It isn't _just_ a Horcrux. It's a family heirloom, passed down to the Gaunts — Voldemort's mother's family. But this ring, this was magic long before it carried a piece of her soul. An ancient artifact called the Resurrection Stone, to be precise. A stone that could be used to call the dead, to speak with those long departed."

Harry eyed the ring carefully. "But I thought no magic could resurrect the dead?" Dumbledore had told him that.

"No, you are correct. It doesn't truly bring them back, merely an echo of them. Something less substantial than even a ghost. But, the dark magic that has been infused into this ring — while it holds a piece of soul, its essence is...malleable, for lack of a better term. The bit of soul can be used to direct the powers of the Stone. Instead of simply recalling insubstantial ghosts, it can bind them. To objects, or to places, or…" She glanced at him. "To corpses."

Harry stared at her, confused. "That sounds pretty bad, yeah."

Her eyebrows rose. "You didn't read the Daily Prophet today, did you?"

Harry shook his head. "Why?"

Lestrange pulled one from her pocket and handed it to him. He looked down, and perused until he found the headline about Inferi.

"This is it then," he said. "Were they Death Eaters?"

"No."

"Then why?" Harry asked.

She shrugged. "Honestly? I'm not sure. They were probably just in the way."

He goggled at her, feeling slightly nauseous at the idea. Seeing her fight Voldemort was one thing, and seeing her threaten Uncle Vernon had been disconcerting, but the way she flippantly admitted to killing three people for no reason made him angry.

"So that's it then?"

She met his gaze, head on. "Yes. That's it. I can't really remember my reasoning. I was a bit drunk. I probably just picked a fight to pick a fight. They were cruel and savage men who would have willingly served Voldemort, but none of them were important enough to be Death Eaters."

"You killed them — using the Dark Arts — because you were _bored_?"

"Probably. It's been far too long since I've been in a decent fight. They were scumbags, anyway."

Harry felt his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

Lestrange grinned. "See? I told you I wasn't a nice person. I don't care, Harry. I'm not happy or sad that they're dead. Their lives don't matter to me. I'm pleased that I know I can do that now — I was never very good at Inferi, admittedly, and I'm pleased that Voldemort's followers have more reasons to fear now, but that's it."

Harry was on his feet and shouting before he could stop himself. "How!? How can you not care!? You can call them scum all you want, but they were still people!"

Lestrange didn't say anything, eyes glittering like dark jewels in the afternoon sun.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked.

"I'm broken, Harry," she admitted. "I've failed everyone I've ever loved. After you cause the deaths of enough of your friends, you stop caring about things. You lose it — you become less."

"I don't believe that," Harry said adamantly. "You don't get to just give up on yourself like that."

"I'm not a hero, Harry. I'm not even a good person. That's why it's always been you. Not even a half-hour ago, you argued for a man who has shown you nothing but cruelty and casual neglect. Despite all the reason you have to hate him, to want him dead — you want the opposite. You saved him, Harry. He was scum, just like the men in the alley last night. I would have killed him without even thinking about it. So don't you look at me like I'm someone worthy of respect, or someone good or noble. I'm none of those things. I'm here to do despicable things so no one else has to."

"You're here, though, helping me," Harry said.

"Yes," Lestrange said, a bit sadly. "Because I want you to have a better life than I had. You're still — there's still hope for you yet."

Harry wasn't sure he was still following her, but the sentiment was clear. "You're the only person that's been there for me this summer. I don't know if I've thanked you properly for it."

"It's nothing," she said. "Anyone would have done similarly."

"But they didn't. You did," Harry said.

Lestrange looked away from him.

And, that, of all things, infuriated him.

"Stop making excuses for yourself!" he shouted. "It's like you've already given up on living. You expect me to save the world, to stop Voldemort, but I'm just Harry. I'm not that special — I've had a lot of help, and a I've gotten really lucky a couple times."

HIs only answer was a dry, derisive laugh.

But Harry wasn't going to let himself be mocked so easily.

"I'm not some prophesied savior, and I'm _sick_ of you telling me how I should feel!" Suddenly, he was on his feet again, and so was Lestrange. "You _always_ do this! You say that you're giving me a choice, but how much of a choice do I really have? You know everything about me, Corvus Lestrange! And you refuse to explain why! Either stop pretending like you know better than me about my own life, or tell the truth!"

Lestrange was staring at him with a strange look on her face. She opened her mouth to reply, but right then a shrill scream pierced the air. Lestrange's head whipped around, surprised.

Harry thought it was coming from a few streets over.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Something," Lestrange said enigmatically. "Have you seen your cousin around today?"

"No," Harry said.

Lestrange frowned, harshly. "I thought it was too early for this, but I suppose I might have driven up the timetable—"

"What?"

"Dementors, I think," Lestrange said, striding forward briskly.

"Dementors?" Harry asked, heart in his throat, hustling to catch up. "How do you know?"

"Does it usually get this dark this quickly during the summer?"

"No," Harry said. "And it's early. It shouldn't be this dark yet."

"Take out your wand. _Now_ ," she urged.

Harry did so. The temperature had fallen quickly, and he couldn't help but shiver once or twice, in the chill.

"You can cast a Patronus, right?" Corvus asked.

"Yeah," Harry said, thinking of Prongs.

"Good. Then prepare to do so," she said. "And follow me." And then she took off at a run. Harry followed, and they rounded the corner, and dashed through the suburbs back to Privet Drive.

The mist had fallen, thick and choking, and the row of terraced houses loomed like half-misted hilltops in the too-dark afternoon. Harry could feel it — the chill, and the oppressing sadness, the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him. Corvus slowed, and he pulled up alongside her, panting slightly.

She was breathing more heavily than him — far more heavily than she should have been — her breath was coming in sharp pants, as if she'd just sprinted three times the distance they had.

"Corvus!" Harry said, urgently. "Are you alright?"

She pulled to a stop, and turned to him, eyes wide and pupils blown. "No, Harry. I'm afraid I'll be more of a liability than a help, in this case."

"What do you mean?" he asked, and then the horrible realization hit him. "You can't cast a patronus?"

"No."

He frowned — he'd just imagined she'd have been able to, because she was teaching DADA, and she'd dueled Voldemort — but she'd mentioned a traumatic past, so it was likely lack of happiness, rather than skill.

"Shite," he said. Then he looked at his wand. It was all up to him, then.

A shrill scream pierced the night — " _Dudders, no!"_

He ran.


End file.
